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Before I die, I would like you to know that you held me in thrall the very first day I met you, from the very first glance, your eyes holding onto mine for mere seconds, conveying so much in that one damned flickering meeting of eyes—serendipity I'd like to call it, or perhaps, better suited to my tastes, mere coincidence, not to be taken lightly; all the way to my indiscrete pernicious mutterings directed at you—because I didn't understand then, and yet—although I concede to my mistakes—I hate to merely blame youthful mistakes.
Before I die, I would like to let you know that your fierce avidness for forging paths through jagged mountains of danger still astounds me, today, as I lie here breathing my last; still, I cannot believe you are there, breathing the cold air of the world, fighting, relentless, unceasing, not taking into account the various misdeeds, the great debt the world still owes you—it calls to you, echoing, lamenting in the howling, lonely wind, and because I am dying, and because I am alone, also, I can hear it.
Before I die, I would like you to know I savored those moments when your eyes flashed angrily and fiery words flew out of your mouth like bees darting from a rotting honeycomb—because you didn't understand, and perhaps, because I never allowed you to understand this; to understand me—and now I wonder, what if I had let you understand me; I wonder if fate would have allowed us to coexist, your slender hand in my gnarled, aged, accursed one; I wonder, in my dimming mind, what could have been and what should have been; I wonder, though my thoughts are wisps and elude me now at this time, when time itself teeters precariously on an unbalanced chair leg, I wonder what should have rightfully been—and, of course, these thoughts do not soothe me, but reawaken a great, deep, utter ache in my bones, which long for eternal rest.
Before I die my shallow death here in the impenetrable dark amongst the chirping crickets and under the cold, drawn, distant stars splashed across an inky black canvas, I would like my lips to shape the words I incapable of whispering in the delicately curved shell of your ear, or against the silken soft skin of your throat, next to your thrumming pulse—and satiate that irrepressible urge to release everything I have held back from the world, from you, and even from myself; I need you to absolve me, if possible, because now, in the world's ignorant and unfeeling eyes, I am a damned traitor fit to rust and flake away until nothing of me remains—not a single mark or indent where I lay in this moist soil, nor thought imprinted upon a scholar's text lying in the dusty corner of my desk, nor touch or fingerprint upon the gleaming brass doorknobs to your home or even to the massive doors of the ageless castle, nor breath of a whisper floating in the wind as a final cry for help; yes, until naught remains—and thusly, I lay prostrate, helpless, and like a bell, I can hear your voice shattering the darkness I have molded around myself, and I am able to form those words with my drying tongue and cracked lips—but simply cannot utter them out loud.
Before I die, I would like you to know this and more; that I utterly, irrevocably loved you with every particle of my soul, every cell of my body, and nearly every breath in my youth sang your praise, for I thrived as some sort of rabid, mutated species of human—and believed that I had been something in your eyes; and yet, I realized it too late—the bitter irony of my life; how could I possibly imagine, although I yearned so deeply for it, that you would look twice my way after I had spitefully, in my mindless fear you must understand, distanced you so that I could live comfortably in my dank, ever-present solitude?—and yet, after all these years, I wished, and I still wish, and you may call me foolish or idiotic or pathetic, as I realize my mistakes, because I know it all to be true now; and now, once I have finally understood what I should have done and what could have been, I realize that once again, I fear, it is altogether too late to regain what I have lost as I breathe in the musty smell of earth and rain and sunlight and green.
Before I die, I would like to let you know that I am damn tired of this unforgivable world that lashes out at every unsuspecting stranger, as a predator stalks around its prey with an enticingly soft pink tongue darting in front of dagger-like teeth; I would like to let you know that regret hangs upon me like a sodden, dripping coat hanging on a skeletal body even in front of a dry, warm hearth; this longing can never be satiated.
And before I die, I hope you never suffer the ordeals I have suffered.
Because before I die, I realize that I had once found the will to live—in you—albeit I have discovered it a little too...
*
Breath whooshed out of the prone form lying in the mud one very last time, and the cold earth stole the warmth leaking from the fevered body, and all that was left was a shell of a man whose lips were turned upwards slightly.
They thought they heard whispers in the night, they who carried the body away, but they shook their heads and averted their eyes and continued their task, unperturbed by the soft smile on his face. They had never truly seen him smile in life, but there he was—smiling in death.