Good morning.
I heard you got sicker last night, they told me.
You're sick, I can tell when I look at you. I can tell when you're living and when you're just pulsing through the murk. Deep inside you, it festers—the sickness. And I can see it from where I'm standing, from under your skin.
No, I don't think it's trying to get out yet. You're not ready to be a mother.
Deep inside you, yes, it festers—spreading its phosphorescent infection, waiting, always waiting, until everything you knew, everything you were, dissolves. Like the doctor said.
I'm sorry. I loved you once, a lot.
Waiting? Always waiting—for what? For the distant sun with its broken eyes to pierce these waters? You need to understand that down there, there is no poetry. No permit. No identity. Just the echo of something once alive, now only glowing. You know. Glowing. Glowing against the pitch-black, forever and ever, where no sun reaches, where eyes can't see, and where poetry dies before it's born. Where you were born too.
Don't you miss home?
You're awfully quiet today.
No, I'm not going to make your bed. Maybe I'll even sleep in it, and who knows, maybe when I rest my head on your pillow, I'll dream all your dreams. I'm not sure. Which side of the bed do you prefer? The left? I usually sleep on the right, but I'll switch for you. And how do you sleep—on your back, your stomach, or your side? How do you part your hair? Do you brush it before bed? I'm sorry. I probably shouldn't be asking all these while you're still here.
I can't wait for you to be free, for you to forget the things I remember. It's hard to remember what it's like to not know.
Of course I don't want you to die. It’s just that there’s no space left for joy. No, I’m not sad, not really. I’m just not happy. But in a way, I’m relieved they won’t let me see you anymore. Visiting you felt like being a child again, feeding fish in an aquarium.
Do you have to go now?
Yeah, I'll tell your mother you're sorry.
I love you, goodbye.
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