Kurt Vonnegut wrote that the best piece of all of literature was from King Lear. When the climax is winding down, and the characters have shown themselves to be vile, and there is nothing left to salvage, King Lear perishes. Among all the metaphors and metonyms and entire neologisms that Shakespeare could have mustered, he instead wrote: he died.
It is simple, unambiguous, total. It is all that needs to be said. It is all that was not, too.
I do not want this unfinished fluff, the same stuck air that sticks around after the lost. What compels me is the ability to explore, that edge where one can look at the outside, look back to the inside, and see what is there at the balance.
Today, the neat beauty aligns where no one else will see, but you. This absence is what I want to define simply. The fact that I can see you here in all things, even when you are not. That I smell your smell in my bed, even though there was only a short measure of kissing that clogged my nose. And that these words are a way for me to try to touch you, even though they click uselessly in return.
So, I will try to be Shakespearean. Here’s how: I like you. I miss you. I want you. I need you.
I hope for you. I will for you. I wish for you.
There is happiness. Possibility abounds. Ease spreads earnestly.
I am yours. You are mine. We are ours.
I hold your soul. I savour your hugs. I milk your longings. I feel your fun. I taste your ocean. I sing your sun. I radiate your blossom. I warm your winters. I dance your time.
I kiss you. I kiss you. I kiss you.
This is how I want to end. Not after the climax, but at the slow, steady beginning of every day where we start anew for here you are, still with me, when you are gone. In a Shakespearean short: I lived. You lived. We lived.