goodbye, a letter.

Dear Jane,

I remember you told me my skin felt like a new, soft carpet on yours while our lips merged violently, and this particular merging had the background drop of perfection: a drizzle, white doves, a wedding dress, and a priest.

You wrote in your notes: lovers forever, with cupid’s arrow slicing through a poorly drawn heart. Your notes that had my name on the front page and the back — some poetic way to say I was your beginning and your end.

I twirled you to terrible music the other day, and you giggled into my shoulder every time I showed you a move I made ten seconds before. You know that laughter is what I live for. What is a man’s life when he cannot make his woman laugh?

On our first date, you stared inquisitively into my eyes and asked me the color — and I said, ‘the color of a man in love’, and you hissed, reiterating how corny that was. The last time I saw you, you were a mess, keeled over in laughter at one of my jokes. I guess I got better over the past 44 years.

I swore I would die fighting for love with you, yet you made it more of a dance, a romantic ballad, complete with guitars, angelic voices, and my all-time moves. I’m not a poet either, Jane, but you are my beginning and end.

When I danced with you, my love, I did it with a heavy heart. I knew, but you didn’t know. The last thing I would do would be to turn that infectious, beautiful smile upside down.

When you read this, I won’t be able to make you laugh anymore. All I will be is six feet shorter, not counting the shoes, of course. There are some Docs in my wardrobe, Jane. Please act right.

While this is a terrible goodbye, there’s no better way to end it than this: I didn’t die fighting for love. I died a man who asked if there was a different heaven than the one I had with you.

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