You are indescribable.

The most captivating painting, the most enchanting song; the great artists fumble to convey the beauty you live effortlessly every day, and capture only a fraction of it.

The English language has words like flawless, but saying you are flawless eliminates the best parts of your character that irresistibly draw me to you. We have perfect, but describing you as perfect does not communicate the joy it brings me to see you smile. Telling someone of your perfection doesn’t enlighten them of the inspiration your generous deeds produce, how the magic you bring to the world makes it a home. It’s just a word. You are the sun, giving me light and warmth. Giving me life.

I don’t know what else to say. The sun feels like a failed metaphor, because you are so much more. You are the stars in the heavens that guide my path. The moon that offers me sanctuary in darkness. You are the whole sky, showing me an infinite of possibility. An infinite of hope. You are my universe. I could not exist as I am if not for you.

For you, I would do anything. For you, I would suffer any anguish. Any pain. Any grief.

And for you, I do.

Because you are gone.

The clichés tell me that you would leave a void inside of me, but the reality is the opposite. I feel you every day inside me. Tearing at my organs. Eating me alive. I embrace it because it’s the only piece of you I have left. It is the world that sits empty. The universe that has been drained.

Life carries on, but as a broken animatronic. Jolting corpses play around me, pretending to laugh. Pretending nothing has changed. Trying to indoctrinate me into their grotesque theatre. But it is barren. A wasteland of existence. There is only you, and me, and the agony of a dead universe where neither of us is real.

We are alone.

We are alone.

We are alone.

We are alone.



I am alone.