She kneels beside me. I think she wants to say “don’t cry” but maybe that’s just what I want her to say. Her small hands touch my face. They’re cold as ice, as space, as I imagine death to be. I want to say “but it hurts so much,” but I can’t. Maybe we’re both trapped in the same dilemma. Ghosts. She literally, and me, well, I don’t know. Soon enough I suppose, if not yet.

Funny how you think you want to die until you’re fighting for breath, fighting not to. Is it the body or the brain that gets this way?

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