you won't be able to stomach music at first. none of it. there will be too many sounds suggesting too much. eventually you will try to return to it ("he can't have music," you'll say out loud to yourself, wobbling across your new living room, "it doesn't belong to him.") but even the stupid songs will remind you and you'll keep shutting it off.
when he breaks you, you won't eat for 48 hours. then a week. then a month. you will be as hollow as a conch shell with the distant impossible sea inside. nobody will press their ear to your body so nobody will know.
"you're breaking our life," you'll say when he breaks it. "why are you breaking our life?" he always looked so tired, you'll remember. his memory yawns, languidly, shrugs, and putters out.
.
