You cannot be dead. Please, honey, please. Please don't be dead. Please? This whole thing is so stupid and fucked up and I don't understand. I wrote to you on facebook, and I hope whereever you are they have WI-FI so you can read, if not reply. Ha ha, right? Except nothing's funny today.
I will always be so grateful for the lunch we shared on Saturday. What an important trip that was. I'm clinging to those moments, grateful that i can remember the very last time we made eye contact, the last time we hugged, and said "See ya", and you shot me that brilliant beautiful smile. I was thinking that the next time I saw you, you'd probably have your baby. And I guess that's true, you get to hold that baby forever now. What I'll see this weekend is just a shell now - a shell you weren't always that fond of, anyway. And clearly a shell that betrayed you in the end.
No more psoriasis, love. No more stupid allergies, no more battling smoking, and no more worrying about our weight together and trying to figure out how we're going to get back those kickin' bodies we had back in the day. I'm gonna get on that treadmill, just for you. I promise. I hope they serve you scrambled eggs and have banished all offensive condiments, and never dare bring you a salad.
I know you. You would love knowing that you touched people, and that people are moved by you, and you would jokingly say "That's right, cry fuckers!". But then you would say, "Seriously, though, please don't cry. I'm OK." You always hated it when I cried, it always got you upset, too - but today I just can't help myself. I know you understand, and I know you're here with me in my heart.
This fucking sucks, dude. Seriously. You don't even know.