When love starts to crack the night comes in.
It goes on and on. It is full of angry thoughts
and accusations. These tormenting internal
monologues don’t stop when the sun rises.
This is what I resented most, that my mind
had been abducted and was full of Him. It
was nothing less than an occupation. My own
unhappiness was starting to become a habit,
in the way that Beckett described sorrow
becoming a thing you can keep adding to
all your life … like à stamp or an egg
collection.