Pulmonary fibrosis

I can't breathe without the oxygen bottle of your lips. Tell me, will you ever come back to bury my corpse within the coffin of your arms? Ours has always been a funerary love or maybe it is that we are funerary people. I only feel at home at cemeteries and life has forced you to learn to be at peace at funeral parlours. If the flesh is to resurrect at the end of times, what's the use in crying over its temporary loss? And yet, I can't stop this cutting sobbing over your intentional (eternal?) departure. Only grey crowy days ahead and a darker oily past behind. I long for any of our angry diatribes against anyone who's not us, but there's no "us" left. You're now part of the outer aching world and I have no partner to share my anger. Take a knife. Stick it into any of my sides. I need to let it all out before the sepsis conquers every inch of my stumbling disoriented body. I'd rather bleed than choke to death, but you would never dare to stab me. Don't you understand you will kill me either way? Chopin's piano still echoes in my head, while your last promise fades away.