Dear Alone: The Ache of Love and Loss

Some of the most profound griefs do not come from the loss of safety or innocence, but from the loss of someone who bore witness to your story. Someone who was there, who knew without words, cried without sound, sat beside you in the shadow, and called it friendship.

This blog post from The Us in Me is a love letter, a grief letter, and a confession. It is written to a companion once present in trauma and now vanished from view, not by choice but by rescue. It is a voice crying for safety, and the one person who, sharing the same darkness, provided a flicker of light.

Dear God

He took her away. I’ve tried to write, but she never writes back. I both hate and love her for being free. Is this my punishment? Beat me! I will lie still! I will do whatever it takes to have her company.

So, please accept this last letter on her behalf:

You will never know how much I love you. Years from now, within certain songs, I hear your laugh or see your smile. It was such a short time; how amazing the tether I cling to was. I will never let go. We did not speak of pain, yet its chains now bind two souls.

Did you have to do the things I did? I can hope not, but I would be lying. I want these misplaced scars to connect us so that reality will prove a liar.

He took you away. I’m not sure I know what that means. Love? There are others, but none who share this grief forever concealed in a whisper.

I convinced you to run away with me. I should never have to beg another for escape, yet I pleaded with you to leave. You agreed. This was most likely due to my conniving efforts, for I have become quite the liar. I have grown deceitful. I am filled.

Our attempts got us as far as the other side of the house. Where in the hell were we going? I don’t think we even took anything with us, just a dream of escape. My thoughts did not concern you. I’m sorry.

I am alone, and you are gone. I will never see you again. I hope you’re okay and imagine your happiness for the rest of my life. I don’t know your mother, but I admire and resent her rescue. I suppose we won’t desire reunion, for we hold within him. One does not long for an encounter with despair and sorrow. We do not look to sewers when seeking companionship.

And I will remain in this filth for years, but I hope you are free. I love you.

It’s been months now. No word. I’m positive she told her mom; she won’t let her write back. She will disappear. All except this letter. It is sweet, and I will thank you someday.

Should I tell my mom? What would she say? Would we leave? I try, but confession’s escape ends the same way: It convinces her I am lying, and she leaves. No matter, we know the end, it doesn’t, and now I am...

– Alone

Dear Alone

She is with you; does she long to enter?

It doesn’t matter

the only way through

is by hate’s fiery center.

Fear is her companion.

She knows her well.

It is she who will go with her

on awaiting journeys through hell.

She introduced her to hate,

who cleansed her of pain.

Oh, I long to teach her

to mend soul-filled stains.

The only one she never met,

it is I who now speaks.

Besides fear and hate,

she has nothing.

She asks,

God, where in this hell are You?

I am here.

-God

Pause for Reflection

• Have you ever lost someone who bore witness to your pain?

• Is there a letter you’ve never sent but still carry inside?

• What would it mean to believe that you were not alone even in your most isolated moment?

Place your hand gently on your chest. Inhale slowly. Whisper aloud if you can:

You are not alone now. I am here. I have always been here.

The Hidden Thread of Friendship

We do not always heal on our own. Sometimes, healing begins in the company of another soul who knows our ache. And when they are taken, whether by rescue or rupture, it can feel like death. However, separation cannot erase the bond of witness. Shared pain, when carried together, becomes a thread that binds. That thread may stretch or fade, but it is not destroyed. In writing, we remember. In speaking, we stitch pieces of ourselves back into one. And in whispering prayers of longing, we might begin to feel God’s answer, not as thunder, but as Presence.

Even this. Even you. Even me.

-Kimi

-Originally posted in a collection of poems and letters entitled The Us in Me as part of a healing project where one encounters the wounded child within from my first website, Becoming Sound (2018). Please click on the tag 'The Us in Me' to explore further.