Sugar.

You died on a Tuesday.

I stood in that back room; the one by the nurses' station, their laughter seeping through the crack under the door. 

I cradled your little head in my hand. It was just like all those other times I did it. It felt the same; gravity mimicking the force with which you used to press yourself against me. 

Your right eye stayed open. The doctor mentioned that this sometimes happens. I assumed I shut the left with my palm without knowing, but the image was awkward and wrong.

You know the movie Men In Black? Go with me here. At one point they talk about a galaxy fitting inside of a small jewel and later we see the marble tied around a cat's neck. That left eye resembled the universe. I could see a galaxy looking back at me in the space where you once were.

An eternity passed but I left you there a few minutes later. The doctor told me they would take care of the rest. The nurses giggled next door.

I sit at my desk at work, and I go to the gym because they told me working out helped, and I sometimes buy kale at the supermarket because eating clean is good for the soul. This morning I drank a Bloody Mary at a bar on a cooler street than the one you used to live on. But a part of me is always going to be inside of that small room, staring at the vast emptiness of your face in an endless loop of forever. 

I don't know if heaven is real but it seems eternity exists in a cramped medical room surrounded by steel, the air thick with your still-close-enough soul.

You died on a Tuesday. But didn't you die just a minute ago? And the minute after that? Each morning you die again and seemingly always are and always were. You left me with your head pressed against my palm and the universe reflected in your eyes.