How We Treat the Dead

Strange Thing Called "Goodbye"

I asked him what he saw, he kept looking at the ceiling.

His eyes were blurry.

They weren't as clear as they were before.

They're cloudy now.

I asked him why he wouldn't look at me, he said he kept seeing bad things.

I don't think he recognized me anymore.

Sometimes, he'd just stare at me blankly.

His hands were colder and had turned purple, but he still managed to squeeze my hand.

He sat up on the bed he'd been laying in for four days.

I sat on the edge.

He gently tipped his head to rest it on my left temple.

He raised his hand and placed it on my cheek, and let out a sigh.

While I let out a tear.

That was the last I saw of those eyes, the last I felt of that hand, and the last I would ever feel of that breath.