I turned too many shades of blue choking on all the things I wanted to say to you. “I thought this was real” must have gone down wrong and “Come back to me” was lost somewhere in my windpipe. Do not resuscitate and do not bring flowers to my grave. Let the beauty be before the death of it all. Let it be in knowing what we had and what we could have had again had one or both of us not been so god damn stubborn.
