I still hear his heart beating. It stills me into quietude. It beats like Morse Code. Against my own heart. Against my listening ear. And I continue to dream, with the stars in my eyes, the beginning of love growing and digging its vines into my toes, working its way up, past my calves, my groin, my stomach, slithers through my heart, where it tangles with my heart-strings, and a tiny ripple breaks like waves of surf crashing on a shore, delves straight into my head.
And I think of how we constantly wish to have other lives. How we struggle daily with the definition of our own existence. That sad, sad denial of our present, only to mingle with the puffed visions of hedonistic pleasures in our head. The devotion to routine and detail, all for the merriment to deign pleasure from Baudelaire. The asthmatic that wants to run a marathon, to fill her lungs with air that comes from the universe.
The human heart is fraught with frailty, but built with strength, an enduring passion, intuition and tenacity. And as he slips away, like slivers of gun-smoke through my fingers, I whisper, never let me go.