the heart monitor read not the beat of your heart, but told us of all the mountains yet to climb. and I won’t deny the fact that there is a chance your body will not give you the tomorrow you hoped for, the one where you feel the crumble of the earth between your toes one more time. If that’s how it goes, I will for you. I’m not equating my sole to yours, but I’m hoping maybe we’ll both find serenity somewhere beyond these hospital gowns. But I promise I’ll take whatever is left of you with me, barefooted and all.
and I’m sorry. I’m sorry this is all we have. I’m sorry we never had the chance to abuse our bodies like we promised we would. we watched tv shows about teenagers with morning hangovers drowned in smoke and sweats, and we dreamed that that would be us as soon as we were in remission. but the only trips we ever took were to the bathroom, so we could sit and puke our twenty four hour chemo hangover. we weren’t ever disappointed, because we knew such an amount of hope was too abstract of a concept for our desires to ever become true. but maybe tomorrow will finally bring the out of body experience we always talked about.
and if there’s no heaven or hell or any form of afterlife for that matter, I’ll take whatever is left of you and throw you into the air that would be too thin for you to have breathed. you’ll float across the valleys and every grain of your dust will be laughing because this wasn’t what you meant when you said you wanted to be part of the world again. but it’s the best I can do.