
I don’t want your last days;
your last hours;
to feel like your first moments here on Earth:
pain,
cold,
fear arriving before breath.
I don’t want you to begin and end the same way;
opened into suffering,
closed by it,
as if that’s all there was.
But how can I change that?
How do I interrupt something that has already decided?
How do I give this more meaning
when meaning feels like such a small, human word,
too thin,
pressed against something infinite?
Can I?
Can I still do something?
Can I paint this moment differently,
even now,
even this late,
even if I’m already running out of time?
I just want to hold onto this.
Just for a moment.
Just long enough to believe it really happened,
that it was real,
that you were real here with me.
I don’t want to miss your last smile.
I don’t want to miss the last sound of your voice;
the way it forms,
the way it hesitates,
the way your breath comes in and goes out
as if it’s still deciding whether to stay.
I don’t want to miss the warmth leaving your body;
not all at once,
not dramatically,
but slowly,
in small, almost polite waves,
as if it doesn’t want to disturb anyone.
How do I encapsulate this?
How do I preserve something that is already dissolving?
How do I keep it
without destroying it,
without turning it into something dead?
I want to remember the smell of this last moment;
that fragile mixture of skin, air, time running out.
I want to remember how the sounds arrange themselves now;
how every noise feels louder than it should,
how silence presses harder than anything else.
I want to frame everything.
Everything.
Nothing can be wasted.
Nothing can fall through.
This has to be precious.
It has to hold.
Because this will contain everything I am.
This will be what remains of me
after you are gone,
whether I want it or not.
These will be my posthumous memories;
memories I will live inside of,
memories that will both save me
and undo me,
sometimes in the same breath.
I beg you.
Please.
Let me hold onto this.
And then;
after;
show me how to live with it.
Show me how people survive
when love doesn’t die quietly,
when it doesn’t fade,
when it just… stops.
My mind is spiraling.
It won’t slow down.
It won’t rest.
It keeps circling the same questions
until they lose their shape,
until even the questions are tired.
Please don’t listen too closely to what I’m saying.
I know it’s too much.
I know I’m asking for answers that don’t exist.
I know this sounds desperate;
because it is,
because I am.
Just be free.
Just be honest.
Don’t protect me from the truth.
Don’t soften it for me.
Tell me;
how is it?
How do you feel now?
Is there pain?
Is your voice still there, still warm, still yours,
or is it already changing?
Is it hot where you are?
Or cold?
Or something that doesn’t have a name yet?
Do you feel fear?
Are you worried?
Are you holding something back from me
because you think I won’t survive knowing?
What is it like?
Can you hear me?
Can you see me?
Can you feel me trying to stay present,
trying not to fracture,
trying not to disappear before you do?
If I ask you for another sign,
it might be a heavenly sin;
so instead, talk to me.
Just talk to me.
Let me feel you for one second.
One impossible, unbearable second,
before everything changes.
Here are my hands.
Andreia Silva
© Andréia Silva / @andreiass7
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