Apologies

Her scent engulfed him.

Even after she was gone, he caught waves of her as he stalked from room to room in their tiny apartment. The walls were still painted that sickly orange color she loved so dearly. When she grew sicker, she would manage a smirk when he brought daisies and strummed notes on his guitar, whispering lyrics to a song she would never have the chance to hear.

She liked to reach out her pale arm, and run her limp fingers through his hair; all in an attempt to keep what they had alive. They both knew their time was short, yet never addressed the issue. They talked of their dreams, their aspirations, their plans that they insisted they would do. He would plant kisses on her forehead, and make promises he simply couldn't keep.

She died on a Thursday at 4:58 a.m., as the sun burst through the early clouds. While she was dying, he was in the bed of another girl. While she took her final breaths, he ran his fingers along the stranger's bare back. As the life faded from her, he awoke and looked at the top of her head; tried to pretend that the harsh reality was a dream. And when she was finally dead, he pulled on his jeans and went to visit his sick girl at the hospital.

The funeral was held on a Tuesday at 6:45 p.m., as the sun hid behind dark rain clouds. When she was being lowered in the ground, he was doing shots of whiskey. As the casket was covered by damp soil, he stumbled back to the apartment, his frail frame gripping the wall for balance. As the grieving family left her in the cold, dark soil, he would fall into their once shared bed, where his screams and curses were muffled by the thick fabric of the comforter.

John never did forgive himself for letting her die alone. He prayed for death. He would drown his sorrow in alcohol, and have sex with girls that had the same choppy blonde hair, all to try to remember her face; to have her one last time. He never did visit her grave, instead pretending she was the one that had run away. His dreams would leave him in cold sweats, panting as images of her slowly slipped from his intoxicated mind.

Two years passed like this, as John's band rose to fame. He felt himself becoming more and more isolated, singing the songs she had once applauded in his parents' garage. And as time passed, the wound of loss seemed to expand within him.

She was dead. She was dead. She was dead.