It's been nineteen years since you drowned in the bedding,
a fortnight before my birthday, in the age of the typewriter.
I opened my eyes the next day and stared blankly into the future.
It must've looked eternally dim and grey and foreign and strange.
How was this brave? This slow decline, this yellow skin, these stinking sheets, this madness met by morphine, this agonizing wait for death?
The shallow gasp of your last breath?
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