My talk, my song

You passed away on a Saturday, on a hot summer day. I imagine your street was filled with the sound of children playing, their nannies running after them to pad their backs with towels to rid them of their sweat. I wonder if you could hear them, or if it took all your strength to just manage one breath at a time, fighting to get precious air into your ravaged lungs.

Were you surrounded by the people you loved? Did you see their faces, or did pain blind you to everything but the growing weight on your chest that refused stop until it finally took your life?

You left without a word. Someone mentioned you were gone, and because I loved you in secret, I mourn you in secret as well. Except I don’t know how to say goodbye. Not to you. Never to you. And so, if you don’t mind, I’ll go on like before—still writing letters to you that I’ll never send, still dreaming of a life with you that I’ll never have.

Rest well, my love. May you wake someday and find me there.




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