You smelled of lavender and lemon, of sleepy mornings, of headaches and restlessness, of vague perfume and cigarettes and coffee. Your skin, white and soft like a spring flower, was sick with sadness and daydreaming.
I wish your story was different, I wish I could have fixed it all around you, everything that happened before me and everything we shared. My love could not have saved you, but it saved me. I carry your story but I have my own truth. I love and respect and honor your life and death by living mine fully, without any guilt or shame, filled with joy and meaning.
"Pain travels through families until someone is ready to feel it." - Stephi Wagner. I decided to process and dissolve it. Your passage hurt and healed me, it saved me from witnessing and repeating your suffering, so thank you for your loving sacrifice. I am sorry, please forgive me, thank you, I love you.
A decade back, after living all alone for more than a year, I began dreaming in a foreign language. For me, English is the language of solitude, the language of panic attacks and deep anxiety.
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