Dead Weight


When my heart actually does beat, it hurts.  She says that I am cold and I tell her it's because I am not alive.  I am dead and have been for a long time.  "I want to help you," she says.  But I know that I am beyond that now and even though I wish to god there was a way she could do it, she can't.  I know because she's been trying and it hasn't been working.  Hugs, kisses, the way she brushes my hair back at night when she holds me in her arms: all of it is nothing.
      There was a time when her hands, her smile, her touch lighted me up like a burning star.  But it's been a long while since then, and all I'm left with are the beautiful, faint memories.
      She will not give up though, even if I have.  Maybe that will be enough.  
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