in the end, we’ll all become stories. -margaret atwood

you are not allowed to die.

your lungs are not allowed to fill up with fluid

your disease is not allowed to take you

you are not allowed to die.

it doesn’t matter than i understand all the big medical words the doctor uses

they don’t apply to you

the diagnosis isn’t real.

i knew it was bad

when i saw you last

and your hair was gray.

it should’ve been red and green

for christmas

because you always had to match all the holidays.

i can’t stand

that we’ve already had our last real conversation

because everything after this

will just be an attempt

at goodbye.

the thought of you as just a memory

a story i’ll tell some day

makes me forget how to breathe

words just don’t pulse strong enough for you.

they don’t capture the excitement in your eyes when you showed me the ellen show for the first time

or the craziness of your kitchen during hanukkah

you can’t just be a memory

there’s too much of you to

just

die.

you’re not allowed to die

i’m not ready.

i’m not ready to look at all the books you gave me and cry

i’m not ready to put on my black dress

i’m not ready to go to the library alone

i’m not ready to sit at iceberg and get a milkshake without you

i’m not ready

i’m not ready

i’m not ready

please don’t leave me.