Let us go dancing, and pore over old love letters. Let us sit in the silence and mourn the loss, let us hush our doubts in the overwhelming knowledge that we tried out best. That our blood sweat and tears have stained these bodies, have made them new and spattered things. New and beautiful things.
For the thing we lost was also the thing we gained, buried deep on the inside of selfishness and time and words and gestures that meant so little that they meant everything, meant so much that their mere expression was the very thing that tore us apart.
We will mourn the loss as we embrace in a way that is unfamiliar, in a way that is suffocating and small and warm and reminiscent of long nights where bodies merged and there was love to be had, now all that remains is the lingering reminder that love is gone.
We have battle scars now, they are angry and red and tender to the touch, they are the things that said you and me and us. They are the places we cut when we said goodbye and we said go and be great and be wonderful, go and see the world and make memories and find yourself. Go and relieve all the pain in your life and be brilliant and be smart and be everything.
But do it without me.