Lying in this hospital bed machines hooked to my heart, my veins, my pulse. I feel so empty and alone. I think of you and think of what you may be doing on this Sunday without me. Are you happy? Sleeping in, eating a late breakfast with another girl? Making your famous pancakes and coffee with brown sugar for someone else? Do you even think of me, miss me in your arms? Or have you already forgotten me, and moved right along? I lay here under warmed, starched sheets with the beeping of machines in my ears rather than your sweet breath and whispered, groggy I love you’s. And to me I’d rather have death than last another moment with out you.
December 16, 2014