Our Last Canto

Tomorrow morning, when I’ll sit curled in your favourite armchair, I’ll think of you.

I’ll think of the way you hated mornings and loved sunsets, of how you would never admit to using my shampoo. I’ll think of the times you woke me with the smell of coffee and pancakes, and carried me to bed when I’d fallen asleep on the couch. I’ll think of your favourite book, nestled between Dickens and Britannica’s Encyclopaedia. I’ll think of vanilla ice cream and strong coffee and Chinese food.

I’ll think of the red t-shirt I claimed as mine when I first stayed over, of how your face lit up when I gave you the key to my apartment. I’ll think of the little notes you left all around the morning after the first time I threw up drunk on your shoes. I’ll think of how I could smell you on my pillows even days later.

I’ll think of the way you always reached for my hand when we walked down the pier, and how you never shushed me when I cried. I’ll think of the way I clung to you in my sleep, and how you always, always, held me close.

I’ll think of our first kiss, under the pale twilight, tentative and slow like the advancing dawn. How we lay under the moon for hours; hesitant, yet spilling forth our most intimate secrets. I’ll think of how we were too scared to say yes, so we whispered ‘maybes’ into the night.

But that’s for when the sun rises again.

Tonight, I’ll think of how you are as white as the sheets you lie on. How your chest rises, and then falls, only to rise again. I’ll think of how everyone says you look so peaceful, but I think that you’re having the adventure of your lifetime behind closed eyelids.

Tonight, as I pull the plug on your respirator, I’ll think of how I can’t hear your heart beat anymore.

 

x

ritoma

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