Torture of flesh can be bared.

It is a pain you can drift away from.

Hide in the depths of your true self until the pain has passed.

But what if the pain lives not outside you as a temporary thing.

What if the true torture is the complete and total hopelessness of death.

Of yearning with such desperation after a thing long dead.

Of a need to reach out to touch flesh long rotted away, that is so insistent, the only relief is insanity.

Of spending just a moment thinking how - how - could I briefly touch him.

Speak to him.

See him.

I have let you go a million times.

And I will need to a million times more.

Maybe your tombstone is just a place I go to which houses all my sadness.

Surely, surely, after all this time I should not grieve so.

You told me to let you go.

You told me it was time.

I don’t know how to.

I hurt my love.

And I know not even you can restore me.

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