Tom,
I think my corpse is starting to rot. I can see it.
You've left me like a glove without a hand to wear it. Body devoid of skin, pitted by burrowing insects. Crimson veins and white bones and grey flesh once the repository of people as alive as you are, long past the stage of rigor mortis. Milky blue eyes open, stuck staring into a frozen sky. The curve of my lips agape. There used to be a smile there. A final, eternal lamentation to you.
I think you would find me beautiful.
Sometimes I press my ear to my chest. To make sure my heart is really still, that it isn't relentlessly beating, dwelling between now and then. I think I understand. It's bounded in vile string that stills it, corrupting all that it will ever touch. And me, in the process.
How I used to be ensnared by it! Used to press my hand against my chest to hear the thumping of my heart, to hear it's bitter symphony.
Now I long to rip the organ from the flesh that binds it. I try everyday, matted in blood and clutched by the hands of defeat.
I should be blank but I can still feel. My body is rotting and now I am too. A living mind. A dancing corpse.
I want to die again. I want to die I'm already dead but I'm still fucking here and there's nobody else. I've looked.
There's still you, Tom. But nobody survives loving you.