His face, a charcoal drawing of a face,
Burnt blood.
Screams swarm my throat, bursting into the night air.
He was the only one who could quell my pain.
I sink to my knees, like I did when he was alive,
When his skin was still hot, and his breath deep.
But now all I can hear is horrible quiet, horrible held breaths.
All I can hear is something I never got to hear: his last words. Last word. Last breath. Last calm smile.
He lays broken, blown to bits, ripped.
I am numb with longing.
His hand is so cold, colder than his car.
And the cigarette I knew him by
lies
snuffed out.
Snuffed.
Out.
I snuffed him out.
I KILLED HIM.
And guilt, and indescribable pain ricochet through my rib cage, shattering my heart, my lungs.
I can't breathe. I can't see. Blood has stopped pumping through my veins.
Or I wish it had. I can't believe I'm still alive. How could I live with him dead beside me?
How selfish, how unexpected.
He always told me I was going to get myself killed.
To be careful.
But I dodged death like a fish, sliding out of the way as the shark's teeth crash down behind me.
I guess he was tired of dodging with me.
Tired of running.
Took one last, long puff from his cigarette, smiled at death, and fell into heaven.