Stone cold in a brown box, I breathe …no more. But my greatest fear causes my soul to shake-I am afraid that you don’t love me as you used to. I died alone, and I am still alone, and I will always be alone. I pass from one miserable life to the next, seeing the transient dead around me, shimmering silvery shapes who either took their lives as I did, or grew old and felt them dimly slip away, like a curtain floating on a soft summer breeze.
I am dead, but I am still aware of you as you tiptoe gently around my safe haven, from which I will never move again. My vision is misty, but I feel the contrast of your warm hand on my cold face. Here is my proof. You still care for me.
I wish I could speak, but death has sealed my lips. I cannot tell you that it is alright, that it is not your fault. This was my choice, and mine alone. No tears have yet shown on your face, although I see the anguish that you are trying to hide, and I feel a sick sort of satisfaction. Your skin was always tougher than mine. Had I been you, and you me, fountains of tears would have poured from my eyes, oceans of them. If you had fallen, my love, into the tempting arms of sweet suicide, so would my spirit. If you do cry, I swear I’ll smile in my silent, everlasting sleep.