To lose something you love is like being unable to move or breath or speak. It's like waking up one morning and realizing that the poles of the bed are attached to your wrists by metal restraints and your lips have been stitched up. It's like watching the water rise above your head and knowing you're going to drown and choking on that emptiness that used to not be there.
To lose someone you love- to misplace them in body or mind- is like watching that person drowning, chained to the bed, eyes pleading for you to save them. But you can't. You close your eyes so you won't have to see. Or maybe so you won't cry. But it doesn't work.
You do see. You still cry. And they're still there- sinking further and further away from you.
This is what it was like those days Pony was away. Lost. Unfound. It was worse than losing my parents because this was my fault. I had killed him. I had hurt him. For days that felt like months and years I was trapped in my body- lips stitched closed- unable to remove the chains.
Then they grew rusty. Then I stopped breathing. Then I stopped swimming. I opened my eyes, and when I did, he was there. In a hospital, cigarette forgotten, staring at me with woebegone eyes. I tried to shut them again fast- so I wouldn't see. So I would cry. But it didn't work. I did cry.
And then his arms are wrapped around me and he's saying he's sorry and he's crying and Soda is passing side glances, the usual smirk playing on his lips. And I thought 'I almost lost Pony, just like I lost my parents'. Only I must have said it out loud, because Pony's arms tightened around me and Soda ducked his head to hide the smile on his face.
I thought, 'what's so funny'. But then I looked down at the kid in my arms, and I smiled too. Only I didn't try to hide it.