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dear death,

i went to visit my wife today, in the building where i have to breathe through my mouth because it smells like a slaughter house. i don't buy her flowers anymore, because they are almost as dead as she is and giving them to her is like putting flowers on a grave. i don't buy her chocolates, because she'd just vomit them up in a shit-brown wave and she never had much of a sweet tooth anyway. no, i just go by myself and hope that it's enough.

today i realised how much her eyes scare me. they used to be green. mossy green, not emerald green like they say in books, because in real life nothing could possibly be that perfect. but in the sunlight they used to sparkle and that never failed to steal the breath from my body. she always said that her eyes were her best feature. she never could see how beautiful the rest of her was.

her new eyes look like giant cigarette burns. whenever i'm sitting at her bedside in the pink chair with the stuffing leaking out like blobs of decomposing flesh, the chair that makes a noise like a tortured pig when i move, all i can smell is ash. in my mouth the taste of bleach flirts with my tongue the way my wife flirted with me the day we met at the ice rink, too many years ago than i care to remember. i can't even hold her hand anymore, since her fingers turned to splinters weeks ago. one touch and she'd collapse like a tower of matchsticks.

i expect you'll be meeting her soon.

i don't like you very much, death. i hate you more every day.

yours,

the man who loves his wife to the stars and back.