This Isn't Mad

Mad isn't the word I'd use to describe this hollow ache in my chest.
I've been mad before, quite often in fact.
Mad is white hot, hit before you think, blind.
This is much worse than that.
I wish I was mad, I wish I could cry and rage and scream and it'd be over.
I don't know what to do with this.
This confusion that pounds in my head.
This hurt that squeezes my heart and wets my eyes.
This missing that settles in my chest like rocks and weighs me down.
This feeling that I was all made up of you until you left.
Now, I can't breathe without filling up my lungs with unanswered questions.
I blink away stinging tears triggered by a single word, a single song.
I go on existing, afraid to live, afraid to move for fear that you might come back and I'll miss my chance again.