I love him. I will until the end of time. I feel his hand in mine.... His fingers like ghostly kisses against my palm. He read it once. He told me I would have three children, all with my eyes. Then he whispered under his breath that they wouldn't be his.
I told him they would be, but he only hummed in disagreement. He stayed silent about it for years.
Yesterday, he held my hand just like he is right now. His fingers lingered on the calloused skin for a moment. He looked surprised, as if he recognized the feeling. I told him I loved him. I said it all of the time and I knew he felt the same, but this time he didn't say it back. He walked away.
I woke up this morning to three missed calls: one from his mother, one from the hospital, and one from our mutual best friend. I recognized what those three calls meant. I climbed out of bed and walked to the balcony outside of my three story apartment. I was about to let my tears escape when I felt his hand in mine. I suddenly realized why those three children would never be his. His fingers were ghostly as he traced the lines of my palm.
I know this isn't a poem, but I'm proud of it because I fought through my writers block to write this. A friend of mine asked for a story that he could illustrate and this is what came out.