I reach for you, and my hands feel flesh but not person.

I call for you, and my voice echoes back to me.

I ache for you, and I feel unfamiliar.

My soul tries to rip itself from my skin and bones and cement itself in each present moment, because the past is closer to you than each passing moment into the future.

Something is here within you, but it is a stranger.

It doesn’t know me; it doesn’t want to.

I am a passenger on the wrong train, powerless as I leave you at the station. Grasping at the exit door, entering all seven stages. I want to leap out, even if it kills me. I hope that it kills me. It would bring me closer to the time that we were alive together; where we both existed. Where I had you.

I see you fade into unfamiliarity, and I am too afraid to turn ahead. Maybe this path is circular; maybe I will see you again if I wait long enough.

I beg for you, but I realize you don’t care to hear me.

I grieve you while we stand side by side.

I mourn you, and am told to be grateful.

After all, here you are, still alive, even if the part of you that was for me has already died.