I must have looked lovely during the days you quietly said your goodbyes. I realise now, what I thought was love within your eyes, was grief, and the dreams you created, the tales you told, was you living them for the very last time. I was caught up within those dreams. Like a child, I believed the illusion of it all. With your words, and with your hands, you placed steppingstones in front of me, and I walked upon them, not realising they were made out of nothing, and the plunge was indeed far. My heart was beating so incredibly loud that I was unable to recognise that yours had stopped. When did it begin to wither? First you were frozen in time. There was no before nor after. Everything was so still and you looked beautiful. I held onto you until you became solid. For how long has your body grown stale? I wish I would have known that your heart was ebbing. You carried your disease so well. Only now, when worms and maggots occupy your eyes, can I truly see. How did I look when I smiled at you those days? Do you remember? How did my warm skin feel against yours? My rosy lips? My tender hands as I brushed your hair from your eyes? Does my voice still echo within your ears, alongside those promises you made? Like a whisper? Can dead hearts even feel anything at all, after having withered?