Dearest,

The equinox of our love came upon the horizon in intimate fashion; and its sparky, fiery end was as inevitable as the damage that the now-spreading cancer is causing my spine.

As an inch of me died, I felt a part of my soul grow harder. And with each dying inch; I craved the solace that our interlaced fingers would bring; but the hard-reigning fact was that the love you had for me had lost its warmth –the warmth that had kept me alive for as long as it did; probably the consequence of daydreaming rainbows into a cloudless dark sky, with the sense of unrest  looming deeper with every gust of the ice-cold wind and storm.

You are a gaping black hole in my life, and everything I put there is lost in your shadow; the one that occupies the darkest, deepest parts of my core.

When people speak of love; they tell tales of beauty and happiness, and the feeling of being content; without speaking of the lonesome, and the pain that one endures in its name.
The love that these people speak of is not love at all, because, love is pain. It is the gut-wrenching fear that one has when away from their significant other. It is the fear that the time you share with that person is ending, just as it begins; and the understanding that the sands of time shall close in on your worldly time together, here on earth; and that no matter how many times you’ve said your goodbyes, when the time comes, you’ll wish and want for one more moment; one more chance to bleed praise and thanks for the meaning they’ve given your life and being; one more moment to keep them yours; for no one is promised a second chance, and if this was the only one you’re given, you want them to know what they meant to you; a moment that you pray extends into eternity. Alas! Words bridge momentary gaps, the big chasm between life and death, however, is beyond the sacred hold of your words.

This is what I feel, as I lie here, dying in more ways than one; left only with broken remembrances of a time long lost –but not forgotten­­– with voices that hang in the background as if to remind me of the permanence of decay; playing back to me the battle cries of my youth, of young love and lost friends; the ardent days, where our love was a symbol of rebellion, a symbol of happiness, and a beacon of light in the darkest of days. Time and love are two things I do not have enough of, and no amount of wealth I may possess will change that.

Oh mercy, show to me thy self, at this fleeting hour, where I lay broken at the temple of thy pride.

Oh Mercy.