The collision is such an ugly sound

The collision is such an ugly sound. I can still hear him talking in my mind. His words, woven in the same pattern as Italian cashmere, are more coarse than ever. Their abrasive tendencies have become overwhelming. Where the strings have rubbed repeatedly up and down, there are pulsating welts on my cerebral cortex. I sit on the floor trying to find a rhythm in the pulsations, but to no avail. Without him there is no rhythm. No, that's not right, without him the rhythm is to complicated. Cymbals crash while a pipe flute sings a sweet tune of free jubilation. My piano pounds pound a refusal while his guitar drags me by my heels back into submission. A violin wails upon cascading triads, a cello cries. A bass plucks out a bouncy, ethereal melody. It all attempts to integrate in my mind but the result is a horrible clash of music on silence.
The collision is such an ugly sound. With him gone there is a resonating silence. The nooks, crannies, and spaces that he kept so forcefully occupied with his will are now cavernous. But now they are free, they are free for me to do with them what I wish. I could fill them with new wills, of my own or of others. I could store things away in them. His old sweaters and photographs and pictures, I could hide all those in the nooks and crannies. Something must be done about them though. Currently, their vacancy offends me. Currently, the vacant spaces are offended. They are offended by the symphony that threatens to break over my parapet at any time. I'm fighting however, I am fighting.
In the tumultuous symphony of repulsion, I can find a tune or two. Those help. As long as I can ride the high of something transcending my own pathetic pain, something more mournful than the look on my own face, I can find momentary solace. As long as I keep pen to paper, finger to key, I am momentarily sedated.
And then there's the other, the other "him". He is trying his best to kiss away my worries, and I can say his efforts are not in vain. When his lips meet mine and the grass bends underneath my elbows, quaking from his weight, I am appeased. It's in those moments that I remember what it is like to be adored and appreciated. Not loved, I don't want to feel loved again. But maybe the correct term is lusted for.
I can't depend on the other to keep my hell at bay. For one, you can't depend on what you don't have for sure. And if I've learned anything, it's that nothing is for sure. So in short, you can't really depend on anything. I like other. I lust for other. But then again, other, is just that, the other.
The collision is such an ugly sound. When he tries to reach me, in his pathetic way, it's offensive. It makes me want to rip eyes from sockets and hair from scalp. It turns me primal. No I'm not happy but I'm certainly better than I was aren't I? I'm certainly having more fun.
I'm certainly finding my place in the disruption of the universe.
Then why am I not jubilant.
Why am I not filling the spaces.
Why am I resisting the cacophony of instrumentation.
Why is the collision of happy on him such an ugly, revolting, hideous, sound?