Short Non-Fiction by Mark Ready
Though you rest in the grave, it was your lips that I once kissed and your touch that I hungered for. Love is as difficult to switch off as it is to find, and your leaving was not my choice. You were wrenched from me. Torn. Ripped and yanked from my life without my permission.
I write this because love supplants death. It never dies. It can’t because love doesn’t live and breathe for itself. Love lives when two people are in it and doesn’t go away when one is gone. It stays behind alone, naked, and afraid and changes to grief.
Your body is in the dark. But I recall when you bathed in the sun, and the warm wind tousled your hair. The faint aroma of suntan oil and the pale skin of your tan lines that only I could see. I should have told you I loved you a thousand times a day. I should have asked about your day and listened when you answered. I should have treated every time we made love as the last and reveled in your body and pleasured you and waited until your toes curled and you shuddered.
My body has aged. It aches, and I know my time is coming . . . some time. Time. Time marched on, and time healed my grief. I found love and tried to learn from the mistakes I made with you. And so, I write this Valentine for the dead and the living. As a lesson to live and love the now. Because now is all we have. Tomorrow may never come, and the past is what I remember of you and why I wrote this and signed it.
From Your Valentine with Love
