And then you are gone.

I want to laugh, but my lungs won't allow it. I feel everything and nothing through the shivers that echoe through the empty caverns of my body: one moment I feel your hand and then you are gone. Again and again.

You are telling me jokes and I want to laugh. I want to laugh at these memories we share and the continuity errors in your story, how one moment you're in the story and then you disappear and it is just me. You are losing your voice and I am losing my will. A machine beeps in red. You hold my hand tighter.

I want you to remind me what it feels like to live because I am forgetting. It has been so long and I feel so empty of something I was once full of: this isn't how I meant it to be. Everything is hurting but the pain is leaving me too. Everyone is here but you are leaving to get a glass of water.

I'm afraid I will die in the moment you go to the sink, and the moment you let go of my hand, the beeping will intensify and you'll spill your water all over your green shirt and you'll call the nurse but it'll be too late and this time it'll be me that's gone. You were always gone and you were always coming back. Now I am leaving and I can't even open my mouth to say goodbye.