My body burned - a fire I'd never known. The pools in my eyes commanded me to swim, my heart wished to lay down beside him, but instead I just drove.
Headlines that read Missing Man From Mt Martha circulated for days.
She told me he'd often spoke of running away, and her love for him clung fiercely to the fairytale in vain. Perhaps we should have known better, but the tales fooled us. Prince Charming will save the maiden but who is going to save him?
The floors caught me as I collapsed under the weight of a phone call.
They found him in romantic slumber among the forest - a tree and his throat playing tug of war with a length of rope. It's hard to say who really won.
The chaple was too small to cradle all who loved him. Red work shirts lined the doorway like poppies. Friends wore top hats embellished with ribbons and sunflowers. Sisters consoled their grief in suits and coloured bow ties. An old music teacher played a violin, so haunting and beautiful.
I've never known grief. Memories of his smile and hazy nights in his car have seen my every sunrise since. I see him in strangers and passers by on the street and my heart stops in these fleeting moments of illusion. Resuscitated by reality, they're gone as quickly as they came.
I often think I should visit his grave, place a flower on his tombstone or just have a conversation. I regret that only after he'd died I realised we might have understood each other better than we knew.