THE RAVEN CROAKED

A noisy raven croaked in the distance, a mournful song in the crisp autumn air. Today, I thought of you again and imagined you were here beside me, your shoulder brushing mine as we used to watch the leaves turn to fiery hues. Imagination and a broken spirit are all that you left me. The park was deserted, children’s laughter replaced by the rustling of dry leaves. The benches were empty, and the only warmth I felt was from the weak autumn sun on my face. There was no one around to distract me, just me and the aching in my heart.

I closed my eyes, trying to conjure your scent, but it was fading, growing fainter with each passing season. Once in a while, a robin would flutter by, hopping on the wet grass, searching for a meal. It reminded me of how much I still hunger for you. A primal, gnawing ache that resonated deep within my bones. I yearned for the simple things: the curve of your smile, the way your hand instinctively reached for mine, the comfortable silence we shared, gazing into each other’s eyes. It’s a hunger that won’t subside, like an open wound that won’t heal. I’ve tried to cauterize it with distractions, with new faces, with half-hearted attempts at moving on. But nothing works. Your absence is a constant presence, a shadow that stretches long and dark, obscuring the possibility of any future happiness.

I remember the day we said goodbye. The words whispered between choked sobs seemed so final then. “It’s for the best,” you had said, your eyes brimming with a sadness that mirrored my own. But “best” without you felt like a cruel joke. The robin took flight, its red breast disappearing amongst the bare branches of the oak tree. The raven continues to mock my ears with his screeching melody as the sun begins to slowly descend, taking what little warmth I felt with it.

I opened my eyes, the vision of you beside me dissolving with the departing sun. The cold seeped into my bones, a physical manifestation of the emptiness that consumed me. Perhaps, I thought, the robin’s hunger is easier to satisfy. A worm, a seed, a fleeting meal. Mine, however, is a hunger for a love that is lost, a connection that is broken. And I fear, as I sit alone on this old bench, that it’s a hunger I will carry with me, a constant reminder of what was, and what can never be again. The ache in my heart, a permanent resident, humming a mournful tune to the rhythm of that annoying raven.