I love you so much that I’m mourning your death now. It’ll make
your genuine death much easier for me. Every night I think about
your laugh, your smile, or just a few of the things you’ve done and
I softly sob for half an hour. From time to time I see something
that reminds me of you, a bluebottle or a gravy jug, and I fall apart.
Hopefully I’ll over-mourn you. Then in sixty or seventy years when
you do die, I’ll be fine, pleased, delighted.
Posted by Michael Crowe at 1:20 AM