For Thy Peace, My Soul

33.

I dreamed of Andy. His melodic voice that could sooth the furies, now broken—a harsh and rasping whisper. I strained to hear the words, but could not. His melancholy regard burned colder than liquid nitrogen and shattered my heart as if he’d plucked that organ from my breast and tossed it aside.

Why aren’t you at your rest?

It tears out the very soul of me. Is it not enough I carry the guilt of your untimely demise? No. My most cherished friend, if I could as yet ease your restless soul. But I have nothing left within me to give away. Everything I have is already spoken for.