I want to write a poem about you and
me, but if I do I wouldn’t be able to breath. Your poem will be the last one I write.
Because writing a poem about you would be a nuclear bomb exploding in the
center of my heart. A self-inflicting pain that will surely put me to my grave.
The letter you wrote me a while back still sits in the unopened envelope atop
your flag. I cannot open it because if I do, I will lose what is left of you. That
one last letter. What if I open it? It will surly kill me but would that be so
bad? Then I would be with you. But I will not, you taught me to be strong. I
feel you at night when I am holding her. You never saw her in your physical
form but I know you watch over her. You would have been the best of friends, I will
spoil her like I know you would have. There is a picture in her room that she
points to, she knows you. This one last letter I will read on my deathbed. It will
be my calling to you. When you hear me read your letter, wait there for me, I will
be there.