My body aches.
The spaces between my bones feel like they're filled with glue.
My chest is tight.
When I breathe in, it reminds me that I need to sleep more and dream less.
I consider the kindness of the ground below me as I stand, sipping at chai tea and staring catatonically at the only light in the room.
I consider the kindness of the walls as my eyes move to your things on the table.
I folded your shirt,
but before doing so,
held it to my face.
It smelt of your skin.
I don't want to forget you.
Promise you won't forget me?
The light spotlights these things,
so I take a picture.
This is what I need to do.
The picture is warm
and reminds me of sunrise.
I close my eyes
and feel orange and yellow.
The scratch of your unshaved face on my cheek.
On your way out the door,
you tell me that you might die today, and that you love me.
My stomach churns.
I hope you know that if these are the last words you say to me,
I won't ever be okay.
I try and slip into sleep.
But "four more days" creeps into me,
wraps around my heart and squeezes it tightly until my eyes fill with tears.
I'm sobbing now.
Clasping my hand over my mouth to muffle the sound.
I can feel each day like a rope around me.
Tomorrow, around my neck.
Thursday has my arms and legs. Immobilizing me.
Friday, my lungs.
I'm weak.
Tossing and turning.
When will I see you again?
How many more seconds until then?
Twenty seven days between.
Twenty seven days left lonely.
I'm hoping twenty seven days isn't enough time for you to change your mind.
God knows twenty seven lifetimes wouldn't change mine.