I was never meant to attain remission;

The persistent emptiness was always terminal.

You were the IV

that pumped saline through my veins,

the sheets

that sustained my ceaseless warmth,

the window

that showed me the world, crystal clear.

No one was making you stay, my dear.

Spurious assurance breeds disappointment

and yet you always affirmed that I’d be okay.

Time ebbed by, the way swollen cumulus clouds

roll across their boundless blue backdrop.

And as months elapsed

I relapsed.

Your eyes, rich and dark as my afternoon tea,

would fixate on the beeping monitor.

Sometimes I swore I caught flickers of sickening hope

flashing in them

in likeness to the little mountain ranges

that flashed on the screen.

Hope not for life,

but for death.

One day

without the feeblest of warnings,

you chose to pull the plug.

The line went flat.

You can’t bring me back.

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