Wednesday, June 16, 2010

On Death and Dying

If I'd known you were going to die, 
I would have done so many things differently. 
But I always knew you'd die eventually and 
I don't know why I let time pass between us 
so quickly.

Your funeral holds no comfort for my aching soul and the bleak casket only holds the shell of who you used to be. I can't find you here. You always told me you'd be in the clouds, looking down on me when I was happy and whispering by in the wind when I was sad. I'm listening but you're not here. I'm waiting but I can't feel you. 

Your parents are standing a few feet away from me, holding onto each other as if they're the only thing holding the other up and if either moves, they'll both fall to pieces. I feel the same way, only there's no one to keep me whole. That was your job. You told me I'd find someone new, someone who could hold me the same way you did when the rain poured down outside my window and the thunder was too much for me to handle. I've been looking. Everyone's already paired up.

Your flowers are filling up the room, covering every surface and polluting the air with their unwanted sickly-sweet scent. They're pink, roses maybe, something you told me you never wanted to see again after that boy broke your heart and pretended to apologize with a bouquet. I wish I'd told your parents. They're oblivious to everything we went through. I wish I'd told them you weren't feeling well, or you weren't smiling that day, just so they could give you another happy day that I couldn't. I wish for a lot of things.

Your early death took my breath away and ever since I've been gasping on half-formed thoughts of where I'll go next. You were my everything. I'm lost without you. I have more to say. I have more love to give. You're not on the other end of my conversations, smiling while chewing on the inside of your lip. You're not here. You slipped away while I closed my eyes. 

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