Bordering on psychotic

​I particularly hate this time of the day now. The specific look and shade of the sky, the faint sun fading over the horizon, the slight chill in the breeze. This familiar.
This time is when I used to be walking towards the bus stop to go and see him after he finished work. Another Ritual. Severed. It became the most natural thing. The seasons bled into each other, from the blazing hot summer, to the rainy summer, to winter. I remember braving the rain to see him at all costs, nevermind my drenched shoes or the chill of the water because he would be there at the finish line.

In my attempts at carefully managing this breakup, I have stopped wearing my old perfume. The one I wore especially for him. Just a whiff of it takes me back and saddens me. I pass by the old spots and streets and I feel as though there are traces of him in the air and something supportive to my emotional well being is quietly gutted out of me. I can handle old songs. Just these places and rituals that destroy me. 

 I can still see his face each time I think of him, the black of his hair, the bright eyes. The delicate features.

I have stopped keeping tabs on him, so what if he was last seen on Facebook 2 hours ago.  Just seeing his last seen comforts me somewhat because its a reaffirmation that it is still there. Am I psychotic. I can’t make sense of this madness. There is a vast sea between us now,  it doesn’t matter now. Nothing does. Nomatter how the stars align someday, I’ll never have him.