If it's possible, I'm more nervous to publish this piece than I was with Emma and Elodie. It's probably because this is less "put together", and therefore more risky - it's not a "story" in the conventional sense of the word. There's no narrative, names or plot to speak of. It's more of a poem in prose format, written only to celebrate language and a specific feeling more than anything else. I wrote it on a really cold night, late at night, staring at a moon that seemed too big for the sky. Anyway. Here it is.
I draw open the curtains, although it's close to midnight. The sky is scattered with stars, like diamonds thrown across a velvet blanket, and it makes something stir inside of me. A strange, deep sadness.
Still, it is better to look outside, because there's more of you out there in the sky than there is dying in the bed behind me. I want to pluck to stars out of the navy canvas with thumb and forefinger, to take them from the moon and bring them into the dark belly of this room. It is too empty, too quiet in another 3am I've stolen from sleep. I want the room to shiver with starlight. I want to make it beautiful for you, to light the curves of your face and see you young again, perfect. Strong.
Instead, each breath drags its way through your body. Your chest struggles to rise and fall, your arms lie limp and useless by your sides. It was always your arms I loved the most - they steadied me. They held me. They circled me for countless nights that only swirl in memory now.
If you could, you would kiss the top of my head. You'd tell me it's almost over, that my hand in yours, cold and clammy, is all you need. You were always kind; kinder than me. So perhaps I'm being punished. I will take it. I will stay and watch as you fade.
It's all I can give to you now. This promise that I will stay for as long as you need to me. A hand to hold. The pale starlight that comes whispering into the room on the breeze, your final lullaby.