If we can push, then we can pull. We can turn, rise, fall, invert, fold, bend, break.
We can be rent asunder.
Breath, sucked through greedy lips, held captive in our lungs and purged of its useful components. And we can mourn and fail to forget; persevere.
…Perhaps.
Edward is gone; co-worker, friend, roommate…lover. His body broken in the street; sent spiraling out of existence by nothing more than a car with faulty brakes. I still remember the shriek of tires, cried protest against the jerk of the steering wheel and, mercy, too late to knock him out of the way. A macabre arc of gold and then, red seeping onto the sidewalk. It makes me sick to think of it.
I used to think he was immortal. It was foolish of me to think that.
When I saw that he was dead, I crossed myself, though I knew it was an empty prayer, for the Lord would not listen to my pleas for a Godless soul.
And now…now, I am left here with you, doppelganger, reflection…stranger. But we share a common bond in our grievous loss. Shy glances on both our parts; can't bear to look when we know the other is doing the same. But I can't help but stare.
He was precious to you, yes? Well, of course he was. How could he not be, when he'd spent so much time searching, aching, longing, worrying; all for you. There is—was, a bond there I can't touch, and you, you're crying as if the world has ended.
Who am I to say that it has not?
The snap-pop of flower stems breaking beneath your fingers is relentless. One by one the daffodils, truncated and withering already, fall across the headstone.
"His favorite," you say, and your smile is as empty and false as my belief that heroes can't be killed. I try to return the gesture, offer some word of comfort, but my throat chokes, clogged with the smell of daffodils and freshly turned soil. It lingers in the air like a deceitful pestilence, because it should remind me of the little garden out in the courtyard of our apartment complex; not of shattered, stolen lives, last breaths, coffins and corpses.
Later, I will dig up the daffodils in the garden and throw them away; but for now, a hand on your shoulder is the only comfort I can offer.
You tremble, knees giving way and again, I'm not fast enough to save someone. You sink to the ground, torn, wretched sobs escaping to mill over the hills, lost to deaf, dead skeleton ears. There is no one here, save us.
I stoop down, feet slipping a bit on damp grass. It's hard not to give in, just fall beside you and be swallowed by despair. Who knows what that would help; probably nothing.
"Hey," I say instead, fingers threading through your hair, "it's okay."
Never in my life have I felt like such a cheat. It's not okay; of course it's not. How could it be? But I guess it's what you wanted to hear, because you're in my arms now, threw yourself at me as if I was the last remaining handhold on reality, and well…I guess that's okay.
But kisses? They're sloppy, only half the time catching my own mouth with yours. I can taste the desperation and need clinging to your lips, tongue searching my mouth for something that has been lost.
Would you kiss him like this?
And suddenly, those kisses are painful, to strong a reminder of the way Edward used to kiss. Fast and greedy and he never, never asked, just took and took never spoke a word. It's too easy to lose myself to this. Too easy to forget that he is gone and let my sense of reality slip, my imagination – long since squished and compacted into what numbers and equations and facts can give me- billowing up in a lip-locked flare.
I can pretend that he is here. If only you would stop crying. I hear your voice and it shatters my illusion. If only you would hush, if only for a moment, I could close my eyes and kiss him again, a faux goodbye.
But if only's are built on the backs of broken men, the wishers and the dreamers and the bums that sleep in the streets say "if only" and truly believe that it will do some good. I stopped dreaming a long time ago, when I sat in a hospital waiting room and a nurse with cold hands and eyes that would not meet mine told me I would die before I was twenty.
I could have sat there and said "If only I were not dying" but it would not change a thing. Instead, I built a rocket and I met a man and I I lived /I . I lived and I lived and he died.
It seems ironic, but he's left me with his most prized possession – you. Ah, the way he would talk, his eyes alight, gold sparking like fire, smoldering with pride and passion. He would tell me your genius and your sweet temper. How you loved cats.
He told me more than I ever wanted to know about you. I feel as if I know you better than I knew him.
Is that weird? I think it is, but who can say for sure? Who can say anything for sure?
Certainly not I. I, when I am on my knees at his gravestone, my tongue in your mouth stealing sorrow from your lips. Peace and goodwill to all men, the procession cries, echoing over the hills. They are too far away to see, now. They are black. A long line or marching ants, solemnly dressed for this solemn occasion, relief in their hearts that the reaper has chosen another.
Their hearts match their suits. For what man can claim their heart has not been tainted by the soot of greed and selfishness. Not you, not I, and certainly not they.
The church bells toll, earth-shattering as they crash and scream mourning for the city to hear and shake their heads and wonder who is cold and dead this week. They hurt, pressing reality close; off-key notes like quick harsh strokes of a hammer to my skull. Damn, damned bells.
On the final gong, we break apart, saliva disregarded in favor of stealing air into our lungs, a frantic, involuntary action and you look at me with fear and shame and a peacock's tail array of other emotions.
"I'm sorry," you whisper, trembling and horrified, before scrambling to your feet and fleeing out across the winding gravel path. You will catch up with the procession, perhaps, lose yourself amongst the other ants with the black suits and the social obligation to keep your head down as you walk in stupefying slowness.
And I know my legs would not hold me, if I tried to follow. My heart is shaking in its cage, sending tremors throughout my body, betraying nerves and muscle.
Anyways, I'm not worried about you. Our ways may part for now, a spike of confused actions and fear driven between us, but I know we'll meet here again. I can simply sit here with the too sweet smell of daffodils and the damp grass and freshly turned soil. I know that you'll be back.
Though you might abandon me, I know you'd never abandon your brother.