Touch my eyes. Now close them with your fingers. Feel my lips, they are cold; put your ear to my mouth. Listen, there is nothing, I am dead. Cover my face and mourn for me. Call someone, you are alone now. It's okay if you cry. You can be angry and sad. I am not giving you permission, I am telling you. I am gone.
You will remember. That day in the sun, in the snow, in the rain, in the car, in the field, under the blanket, in the pool. And that night in that dress in Toronto when we danced and we kissed in the back of a taxi. Some morning in bed you will feel me grip your thigh and breath words and air onto your neck and you will dream about time and about me. And again another morning, the warmth, and another, but soon my face will be blurred or hidden or in the shadows or completely gone. Soon you will pull the blankets over your body, up to your chin. Soon you will roll over onto your back and there will be nothing but your own hands or those of another man to keep you warm.
Being dead is nothing but not wanting to die again. So take my picture from your bedside. Place it in a drawer. Toss it in the garbage. Bury or burn it. Give my clothes away. Go and see a movie, and smile and laugh. Fall in love. Just touch my eyes and close them so that I may die in peace.
