I bury my face in his soft body and breathe in his particular scent. This leads inevitably to another thought, and it can best be described as duende. I cling to him with a lump in my throat. I think how cruel life is, that it ends inevitably in death. Every separation is a little death.
Every night spent apart is a harbinger of that end.
I'm choosing to go away, we chose it together, and it's still hard. I can imagine how much harder it is when you want to stay, but you can't. When your own body betrays you. When you're going so far away that you don't exist anymore. When you're ripped from the one you love by the most vulgar sort of reality.