there is a certain kind of longing in death, it is absolute and irresponsible. it is careless to pine for someone who is dead. dead to the world, he writes, i have missed you for so long and it is impossible to continue. he stops. you cannot forgive, he cannot forgive you. he cannot forgive the fact that you have forgotten and i stand idle by deeply dug graves and mounds of freshly wet earth. it is not the dead that we mourn or long for. we are rather compelled by the impossible distance between us, we are drawn by the void. it is the absence of hope, the absence of longing, the absence of despair that we find beautiful. he writes, the look of death in your eyes when you had looked at me for the first time after such a very long time was startling and precious and i knew right then you were never to be mine again. you cannot forget him and he mocks you.