This hospital is killing us, my love. Isn’t that ironic? I’m surprised I can even feel irony anymore, but I suppose there’s an irony in that, too; irony is often connected with cynicism, and cynicism is often connected with nothingness.
I watched you talk today, you were saying something that I wasn’t paying attention to. I couldn’t hear. I was watching your lips move and speak with wisps of smoke coming out instead of words and they formed beautiful mountains that we were climbing together. Somehow I think it was better than what you were saying, but I can never be too sure. The way you blush so soft when you talk about leaving this place, not just alone but with me, your adoring bride, it’s something that could make God himself cry.
They installed a new piano, I guess. Jack told me about it. He said they wanted us to do something productive. It’s an old, barely working model. There’s scratches all over it and some of the keys have been replaced and somehow it is still beautiful. I’ve been trying to learn since I was little, I have the fingers for it. I suppose I don’t have the passion, but then again, what do I have the passion for?
You. I have the passion for you. No matter how many pills they put inside me and how many drugs they pump me full of, I will always look at you with utter admiration and I will feel my weak heart pump inside of my chest. For you. Not for the promise of another sunrise or sunset, but the promise of seeing you asleep in the bed across from me again. If I were to die, if I am to die, I hope there’s a place where I can see you sleep. I suppose there’s another irony in my life, finding the one that gives me life by finding out that I have to die.
Every part of me hurts and I can’t tell if it’s because of the lack of life here or the fact that my life is laying right across from me and she is dying. We are both dying and there is nothing we can do about it. Everyone else keeps telling me that everyone’s dying, it’s nothing to worry about. It’s like they don’t understand the concept of speed. I can’t blame them. The only real way to understand speed is to watch your love’s heart monitor flatten out. There will never be a moment when your heart beats faster, and that is when you understand speed. Not from a car speedometer or a mathematician telling you about the formula. What does a mathematician know about death? All they know is the death of numbers. The death of two ones makes the birth of two. Maybe we will make a two.
