You know, Kurt, the sheets on the bed still smell like you. That blue silk bedspread you yelled so much to have .
Actually, the smell of you is everywhere: on the furniture, on the towels, on the carpet where we used to roll and then kiss, on the clothes – mine and yours – and on the sugary soap you used for showering and that – in these past days – I used until it was finished.
I still don’t smell like you, though.
I’m terrified by the idea of staying in our home too much, I tremble just thinking about all these things that will start smelling like me. A lonely me.
A me without you.
I switch on the TV at all hours and I find nothing but TV shows that we used to watch together sitting on the sofa under the plaid, like ‘Sex and the City’, where we used to comment on all the clothes as two old spinsters; or 'Will & Grace', that always made you laugh.
And I loved your laugh so much.
I wish I had recorded it so I could use it now as a lullaby.
I wish I had caught your glances, your caresses, your smiles and all those nights together, spent by chattering or listening to your sighs. I would like to put all this into a box, to close it and to seal it with me IN it trying to get drunk by you.
If I just think, after this ceremony, I still expect to go back home and to find you in the kitchen, wearing your red smock that I gave you last Christmas, while you cook some French unpronounceable-name dish and you order me to lay the table. I would snort, as usual, but in the end, I would satisfy you, because I was not able to say no to you.
I already miss, even our little fights.
When you were jealous of the owner of the pub where I played the guitar on Saturday nights, or of the shop assistant of the dress shop who complimented me on what I was wearing. You said he was just an ‘unqualified rude playboy’,
and that you could have done a lot better.
I miss hugging you and kissing your neck, and I miss when you used to bite my ear before falling asleep. No one could have wakeN you up then. And, when you slept, you were beautiful, so beautiful that, believing you were mine, I almost cried.
I have a lot of photos of you. I embrace them every night, now. But they don't give me the same sensation that having you with me did. I feel – rather – empty, alone, dead. I can’t do it without you, and you know it.
But things cannot change.
That truck can’t disappear from the 36th and not run over you.
How much I wish it could.
I feel terrible just thinking about you. I pray every night, you know? I pray you come back to me, I pray for my bed to stop being so cold and for me to stop eating takeaway since I can’t cook. I pray that I can hold you again, kiss you again, that I can restart living with you, knowing that you will always be there for me.
I want you back.
And this life without you sucks* so bad I can hardly stand it.
Come back to me, Kurt, come back even if you can’t.
Or, if you are not able to, stay next to me and give me the strength that I don’t have, to keep on living. To raise our son that we had just adopted and who is arriving on Tuesday.
You decided to call him Darren.
I know nothing about babies, I’m not good at it, and just the idea of raIsing a child that will remind me of you every moment of his life is a bullet straight to my soul that hurts as if I were already dead.
But I have to go on now, right?
I have to be strong and to be as brave as I’ve always told you to be. I would like to hold your hand, to hear your voice trying to comfort me, but there’s nothing left of you.
But I’ll try, Kurt.
I’ll try also for you. I won’t forget you. I can’t.
Stay with me for the rest of my life.
Stay with me and with Darren.
Me and you, always, do you remember? You and me.
I love you, Kurt, and I hope there really is A Heaven somewhere beyond the sky where you are listening to me. I spent seven hours writing this epitaph.
This isn't a goodbye, Kurt, because there won’t be a moment of my life when you won’t be with me in my heart.
Rest in peace."
- Blaine Anderson.