butterfly kiss

fig. Self Portrait With Hands

When I turned 22, right after we'd moved in together, I woke up one day and found that the left side of my body had decided it'd go limp. 

Ischemic stroke, they called it.
A heavy burden, I know you secretly called it.
For a month, you took good care of me,
from helping me into the bath and cleaning up my shit,
to wiping the food dribbling down my face.

Eventually, you grew tired and worn and unhappy and lonely.
You aged ten years in a month.
You told me you had a whole life ahead of you,
and I agreed.
You do.
You said you could not spend it mopping up my vomit anymore.
I agreed.
And then you were gone.
I was stuck with myself and half a body. 

Sometimes in the evening, I lift my left hand with my right
I gently stroke it like it were yours. 
Sometimes, I tell myself the tears that fall on my hand are yours too. 
Sometimes, I can pretend it is.