I thought that, in dying, I would regret the things I haven’t done, but instead I am feeling an entirely different type of sadness: I wish I would have gotten more out of everything I had.
Most of all I just feel as if I haven’t told you I loved you enough- I am afraid that you will live to regret the last argument we had, and the silence we planned to keep for hours I no longer have left. I will miss you terribly, even in the nothingness I am plummeting into. I will miss you like falling leaves and lost opportunities, like the dust that settles on photographs, like a dying fire.
Confession: I imagined that I would grow older and meet someone new, someone who loved me more than you ever could. I clung more tightly to the future than to the past, a past in which you once told me you loved me too and then gradually I forgot what your voice sounded like when you said it. I decided it was never the right time for us. Got tired of pulling you back after we drifted apart. And I’m sorry.
I didn’t know then that love could be recycled. I stored it inside of myself, waiting for the right moment- thought that you would return to me in some other form, as some other person.
I wanted to grow old and meet you again and again until we forgot each other; I wanted to love you on my own terms, while that feeling rested continuously inside my chest, begging to be spent.
I want so badly to see you in another life,
or to relive the past five years and fix everything I broke along the way,
But if I can’t have that,
I want to say goodbye. and thank you for the moments we did have- thank you for all the sunsets, all the conversations, all the music, all the beautifully irreplacable earthly things that life has given us.
most of all- thank you for the love you have given me. it is like the weight of the world had been bestowed upon me, like a gift,
and it holds me fast in these final moments.