I went to your funeral yesterday.
It was a showy affair, with your name spelled out in flowers and everyone you’ve ever met lining the streets, dressed in black, weeping as the cortege crept up the hill.
Your family were glad to see me. Your friends told me that I looked great. I stayed away from your girlfriend, so as not to cause a scene. Lovely service, though a little more religious than you would’ve liked.
We had a private moment: just you, me and the good Lord. I kissed the lid of your coffin, right by the little gold plaque with your name on it, and left a perfect lipstick mark behind. One last kiss, for old times’ sake.
Then I walked out of the church without saying goodbye to anyone – well, no one alive, anyway. Outside I heard someone say, “Why’s she smilin’ for?” I was smiling because I knew that it couldn’t be real.
No, in the real world there’s no way that you will die before me. I will only ever attend your funeral in my nightmares, in weary unwelcome dreams like these. You will live a long life. We both know that I will die first, if not from a broken heart then from sadness, probably both. “People don’t die from suicide, they die from sadness.” And you’ve certainly done your best to add to mine, my love.
(And no, I didn’t go to your wake: I woke up).