I remember the day you planned on taking me to Starbucks for a quick date. I think it was a date. I know we were holding hands "to stay warm".

Starbucks was across the road, just at the corner. The red hand was flashing to tell us to wait. You were going on about how cute I looked that day. You stumbled back in a clumsy fashion. I yelled, "Laf, watch out. The hand is red."

"What?"

Then the car hit you. You went flying. Cars stopped, people rushed to help you, calling 911.

I just stood there. It was no use. You were dead. I never told anyone this, but I saw the exact moment your soul left your body. We talked about it, remember? It was just whenever you were leaning back before you went flying. You looked scared, then just dead. No life. No love left for me in you.

I don't remember the funeral. All I could think of was how you died. The moment you died ran over and over in my head.

All the, "He was a good man," and "I'm sorry for your loss," blended all together.

And just like that, you were gone. It wasn't my fault. The person who hit you paid for the funeral.

I love you, Lafayette. I hope you knew that. I never told it to you, and you never told it to me. Please come back before I start crying Laf. Lafayette.

I set the flowers down on the grave and walked away.