Preparing for my love's funeral

Looking in the bathroom mirror, my eyes have an almost hooded appearance. The sorrow and the crying shows very clearly in my face. Washing my face with soap and water, an artificial glow starts to appear, although it does not reflect the inside which is as dull and numb as old brass. 

Brushing through my hair, I notice how thin it is. Like an oat field after a rainy night where all the straws are lying down, almost bowing to the power of nature and accepting their frailty. The hair might be soft, but it is polished dead from sorrow and tears. Grabbing an elastic band, I put it back into a ponytail to forget about it for a while. I don't feel like dressing up or looking sexy - I just want to dig a hole for my self. Not a deep one, not a wide one - Just one that can contain me and put myself in it. 

Picking out clothes, I choose black. Black, the universal colour of sorrow and the symbol of death, black trousers, black shirt, black shoes and a black blazer. Brushing my teeth, my eyes begin to sting from the piercing ray of mint from my mouth, causing even more tears to fall down my already sad and  pale face. I am just pathetic, the most vulnerable and frail person on the earth right now. If you were to shout at me from across the street, I would most likely crawl to a ball and lay there dying. Tripping in the street would send me to tears, bumping into an old friend would have me running for the hills. I just dream of going to a cabin in the mountains, wearing a floral dress and be greeted by a handsome young man with a big red beard and big, strong arms. He would have a comfortable arm chair and a flickering fireplace. And I would just lie in his arms and cry and cry. But now, one must not fantasize, for I am in a black taxi going to a white church to see my love getting buried, forgotten about, eaten by the crawls of the beneath earth and forgotten by the aftertime. Dust in the wind, but I shall never forget him. He was the one who took my innocence, and while doing so, also took my breath. He was tall and gangly with a wide, toothy smile. When he smiled, his eyes folded to slits and his face was just one big grin. God, I loved him, I loved him, I loved him so much. Always standing in contrappost, his body took a turn and defined his muscular legs and pointy hips. He had big, tan, veiny hands that held mine so softly and protectively. His hair, the colour of straw, was long and shaggy, with an angular, defined jaw and a little goatee on his chin where as most men his age didn't have any. I miss him so much, I would give both my legs if he could be brought back to life. I would drag myself on the ground and just be happy to eat dinner with him, legs or no legs. I would be uneducated, and just be happy being so, as long as he was coming home to me everyday at five and tell me what wonders and beauties he had seen. Then we would go to bed, and he would stroke my breasts carefully, until getting carried away and cupping them both with lust. But now, I must walk to the yard, and watch my hopes, dreams and fantasies get buried in the ground with a little, pointless rose over it.