It’s a beautiful day, outside; I can see it from the small window in the badly lit room in which we’re in. The clouds have decided to stir away from our path, and the sun is strongly facing down on us, in beautiful yellow sunrays that I love so much. However, that is not what interests me.

No, my focus is on you; you, with your soft skin gleaming slightly in the light, and your hands hidden under the white gloves that you always wear, these days – I have yet to see the hands that hide underneath them, now; you, with the sad, but caring, smile gracing your pink thin lips in a manner that has me instantly smiling as well; you, with the black ink on your neck, right below your right ear, that contrasts against your olive skin, complimenting it; you, with your black t-shirt hugging your torso not too loosely, which makes it still possible for my eyes to make out the lines of your not so skinny body; you, with the jeans that you have taken to loving – these grey skinnies that hug your legs with the American flag displayed on top of them in a stylish way. I cannot take my eyes away from your figure.

Gladly, you do not take your eyes away from me, as well. I let my eyes follow your gaze as you look over my bare body, taking in everything about me: the soft stubble on my face, a dark spot that matches my ebony rebel hair; the way too big nose that I had to deal with, all my life, but that you pat with your index finger almost as if you find it endearing; the small lump on the bottom of my belly from where I had my appendix taken out, just last year; the abundant hair on my legs that makes you chuckle softly as you shake your head.

“Were you always this hairy?,” you question me, your voice full of that entertained glee it always gets, whenever you would mess around with me, when we were teenagers. “I think you could have won a contest of who’s the most hairy, if you were up against a gorilla!,” you joke, chuckling, once again, as you proceed to caress my chest in the softest manner.

Even though we have not seen each other in about six years, ever since we were nineteen and things between us did not work out as we wished them to, I can still identify your every quirk, your words are still familiar and your eyes are still my paradise. You still incite me to be better, even if you do not know it, and being in this room with you is almost electrifying – I can feel myself get worked up over you, over your magic.

No matter how many things I know I have to tell you, I refuse to speak; my voice would be a burden you would not be able to stand, and I prefer the silence, anyway – it is calmer.

“I didn’t mean that as an insult, though,” you say, after a while, as you mess with my insides with your experienced words. “I think you’re pretty,” you continue, and I dare to fully smile; it has been a long time since I have heard you call me pretty. “You remind me of this boy I used to date, actually,” you comment, a grin on your lips as you look down on me.

I roll my eyes at that, still not speaking; I prefer to think, as my eyes lock on your beautiful face, memories from the past coming to my mind as I stare at you. When I first met you, I remember wondering if you were not real; if you were just another character from the one too many books I read. It turned out that you were real, as you and I got to know each other better; you had your flaws, something that is quite never displayed, in books, to confirm your veracity.

“He was an amazing boy,” you start, and I look at you, endeared; I have always loved when you pretend not to know me, and tell me about myself as if I am just another stranger – for some reason, it makes me feel more loved than those times you said you loved me. “He had the same chocolate brown eyes as you; they could stare deep into my soul like no one else. It was pretty amazing,” you continue, your game playing on as you smile down at me. “He was the best boyfriend I have ever had, to be fair; and probably the boy I’ve loved the most, in all my life…” Now, you sigh softly, as you almost lean down on my shoulder, biting your bottom lip. “I regret letting him go, every single day; I miss him too much.”

I can see in your eyes that you are being honest; they always twist softly when you lie, and, right here and now, they are just focused on my face, that sad smile on your lips deepening in its melancholy as a song you knew too well came on the radio.

Wheels are turning; I remember when you were mine…

You close your eyes, then, another sigh escaping your barely open lips, as you lean onto me, your forehead lightly touching mine as you sing along. Your voice is still as beautiful as it was, the newfound maturity to it making it deeper, even more captivating as before. I continue staring at your face, my eyes a bit glassy as the song goes on; I can hear the pain in your voice, and I want to reach out and hold you, but I knew better than that – you are not ready for that, yet.

Instead of moving, I simply let you sing your heart out, pleased that I get to hear you do it again; it has been too long since I last heard you sing. I know that your hair is now mixed up with mine, the caramel melting into the chocolate as you stay close to me for as long as the song goes.

“I don't want your picture on my cell phone. I want you here with me. Don't need those memories in my head, no. I want you here with me.”

I remember when we were younger, you would tell me that music is the food of love; back then, I would not understand what you were saying, no matter how much of a music enthusiast I was. It was not until I had the chance to hear you sing to me that I would realize just how right you were; I always wished that you could sing me to sleep, whenever I heard your beautiful voice – it always endeared me.

As the song reaches its end, and changes into a more upbeat sound that I do not recognize, you seem to realize just what you did, pulling your face away from mine with a soft clearing of your throat; even though I do not react, you blush, and I cannot help but find it adorable.

“Well, I’m quite sorry about that,” you apologize, moving your hand lower on my body to grab a small paper that is on my hand; you have not put it in its correct place, yet, due to your distraction. You grab that small, rectangular paper easily, the smile from before returning to your lips. “You shouldn’t have to listen to the awful Alex Gaskarth sing…” You continue, looking down at the paper so to get the information you need. “Jack?”

You seem surprised that my name is on there, and it almost makes me feel hurt; did you not recognize me? However, I shake my head from those thoughts – of course you did not.

I sigh softly, but that is only it; I do not move an inch of my body to comfort you, to speak to you – I cannot do it. The only thing I can do is watch as your eyes move to my face, the finger, that touched my nose so playfully, before, caressing the side of my face in a gentle manner, freeing it from the strand of hair that had gotten stuck to it; it is almost as if that single piece of hair makes all the difference, and your mouth shapes into an ‘o’ as you stare, once again, at me.

This time, you do not sport a smile upon your lips; in fact, it is quite the contrary, as tears seem to quickly rush to your glowing eyes. You are rapid to drop the small paper to the floor, your hands coming to my shoulders just as quick as you break into a desperate cry.

“No no no, you can’t be Jack!” Your voice is loud, but we both know that it is not worthy, anymore; there is no reason for you to scream, as you will not be heard. “You can’t be my Jack! My Jack can’t be dead!”

Even though you seem to be falling apart on me, I cannot help but think of how adorable it is that you still call me yours; even after all this time, you still feel protective of me, and it soothes my spirit, which is really all that is left of me.

I watch you interact with my lifeless body in pain; I want to do something, I want to walk over to you, and, even though you cannot see me, put my hand on your shoulder and tell you everything will be alright. I want my life, for one more day, just so I can teach you how to leave without me; this time for good. I want to show you how a heart can never fail; how, even though not physically, I am still there with you.

I am incapable of doing so, however.

Suddenly, the soft, pleasant light that was breaking through the high window of the morgue’s wall becomes stronger – so bright, so bright! – and it makes me blind. I am unable to see you, anymore, and it almost makes me choke on my own breath, almost makes my heart stop – if I had one, that is –; I want to stay with you.

In the distance, I hear everyone screaming; I cannot comprehend what they’re saying, but it seems to him they are beckoning me over. I do not want to join them; I want to stay by your side, to be able to be yours, again; it is not fair! This is not fair!

I join everyone else’s yells, but mine are not in order to get closer to them; I am screaming in anguish, the torment of not being capable to stop myself from going torturing me slowly, as I go. I have tried a revolution; I have tried to fight the enormous feeling of being gripped tightly, but I cannot succeed – I cannot stay.

Before I go, though, I am granted one last bit of happiness; before I am completely pulled away from you, whatever is pulling me away is generous enough to let me catch a soft glimpse at you.

It is still a beautiful day, outside: the sun is still shining bright, and the clouds are still far from where the morgue you work on is located; but, as you cry over my dead self, a song that only the two of us know escaping your shaky lips, I know that the rain has come to stay, and I cannot help one simple last thought:

If music be the food of love, play on, play on.

Notes

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