I can still taste you,
though the taste has grown bitter
as the days have passed.

Your voice still hangs here,
in the stillness of the night,
but just by a thread.

All of your letters,
the edges torn and frayed, turn
to ash in my hands.

And as the pieces
hit the floor, I realize
that you are dying.

Your breath does not cease,
but your presence slowly fades
with each passing day.

Your lungs are alive,
but your heart, that I used to
hear beat, pumps no more.