“I’m sorry for your loss” those words echoed in my head. She’s not sorry. She can’t even be bothered to remember his name. I turned on the radio to silence the intoxicating words, but it only worsened, like spraying a foul room with bottled scents; the gloating, happy flavored melody mocked my sadness whilst stabbing the atmosphere that was already bleeding. The song? L’amore – love, love is a disease. Either it fails, you realise your weaknesses and so you can fight it; or it succeeds, and the disease is too subtle, so by the time you realise it’s there, you’re dead. It kills you. It kills your other half, the very half you need to survive.

Anger exploded in my heart. He’s left it irreparably shattered. He’s gone. My life – my world – unfinished without him.
I’ll write a song. For him.
“There’s no life without thee … no;
“What is life to me without thee” then the words came to me like a flood and my eyes leaked pain itself.
“What is left if thou art dead?
“What is life; life without thee?”

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