I don’t know why I’m here, I don’t even know who I am.
I don’t know what I am, I don’t know what I’m for,
What I can do,
I don’t know if there’s any point, or what it might be,
I don’t know why I’m alone and what that means either.
I thought we could see things out, grow old together.
I thought we’d see our children grow, find their own loves,
Have their own children, see the future being built before or own eyes…
An onward march of hope and progress
It only took a few cells, relatively, to go rogue.
It only took a minor failure of your body to produce the right blood cells.
It only took a small infection, relatively, to build to the failure, the cluster-fuck that would silence your song,
To still your activity,
To quieten your ever-active investigations into the world and the world beyond,
To kill you.
It only took a week in the end, to end your eternally resounding life
Seven days of holding your hand (are you there or have you gone?) to change my life, to extinguish the sun, shatter the dreams
No, not even dreams, but the accepted, almost implicitly-assumed expectations.
The right, the due, the inevitable twilight of our day, the terminus of the arc of our lives
We should have grown old together, it was fitting, it was right
This… this is an abomination, an error, a mistake; it should not be.
I am living in some kind of administrative cockup and it will be put right.
… and yet it won’t.
Two years in and I’m still waiting.
Three years on and I’m still a clock running down, a car out of fuel…
coasting to a stop but already rolled further than it should
I’m stuck and I’m scared and I’m lonely and I miss you
I don’t know what the point is