This morning, I had two cups of coffee—the first was filter and the second was instant. Even with coffee, I ran out of energy to make coffee. Crying with my face turned towards the wall, I wanted to say something like my heart is breaking. I wanted to write poetry about you, for you, to you. I wanted you to be able to read it. I wanted you to laugh because I have to wrap words around everything but you’ve always been more about action. I stared blankly at a screen that was anything but blank, trying to form sentences to make sense of this, but they melted and dripped over my hands.
This afternoon, I tried to will breath to you across the curve of a planet that somehow still turns. We should be able to have that connection because I need it so much and a need this powerful should defy all natural laws. I would give you half my body if I could, for all it’s worth. I would rip it apart with my bare hands and carry it to you in a heart shaped box or a cut glass coffin or bleeding through my fingers. These thousands of miles are nothing compared to what I would trade with The Great You-Name-It, if only.
This evening, my stomach lurched and tied itself in knots, reminding me to do normal things like eating, drinking, waiting for the phone to ring. Sometimes all it reminded me of was the moment you left, me asking you to please not do anything terribly reckless and you grinning and promising you wouldn’t. You lied.
Now, night finds its way to me and my waiting. Only sleep here, no coma, but mostly hours in the dark fearing the inevitable moment in the future when I realise I’ve forgotten what your voice sounded like.
Today, you are dying and my heart fractures in time with its own steady beat and I love you. In case you didn’t know.