Have you thought about all the stars that you've seen throughout your whole life? Is there one in particular that you remember? Like those stars, I'm just as unmemorable. But maybe stars are a way too beautiful metaphor to compare myself with.

And then I think about the pebbles in the lake, the grains of sand in the beach. Or maybe the dirty and dust in an old, forgotten home. Yes, that is an appropriate description.

And I wonder, if you ever think about me. If you at least do so to plan my murder. If you could only think about me, even in the most perverse ways, that'd make me the happiest man in life. A questionable happiness, indeed, but does anyone know what happiness really is?

Even if I'm one of those forgettable things in life, one of those forgettable things in your life, I can still hope. Hope that when the day comes, I get to spend the rest of my life with you. Even more: to spend the rest of my life in your arms, your hand in my heart. And that the last thing my eyes will ever see is your face, even if you're not looking at me. And I wish. And I hope. And I pray. And I wait.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

But in the end my wish did not come true. Because in the end, he was the one that left. I can be selfish, though. And I indulge in the fact that, at least, the rest of his life, he spent in my arms. And that the last of his words were spoken to me.

"…"

And I hug him. And I damn him. And I cry for him.