[Beautiful art by http://feimo.deviantart.com]
And yet that night she spoke to you.
She had not spoken to you countless times that you craved her presence more than dear life. But that night she spoke to you, and endless days without her by your side vanished in a blink.
In a dream she came to you.
Be careful, my love, she whispered.
And the sweetness of your native tongue on her beloved lips was a gift you were not prepared for. Yet she gave it just the same.
Dead, you said, before you could stop yourself, head spinning, heart beating out of control. You're dead, aren't you?
But her sensation was more real than anything in your waking life for the past twenty years, and the pain was more that you could stand. Blinding and crippling, like death itself. You shakily extended your hand and found hers in the near darkness of that room, and it was the hand you knew, small and warm and beloved. Something broke inside you then and you found yourself on your knees.
Stay with me, you whispered. Please.
But the only thing that stayed with you when you opened your eyes were your tears.
My beloved Japanese pixie yells his pain out in what feels like gusts of wind. And I write, because there is nothing else I can do. Nothing else.
I am sorry, Mr Takeshi.