Torture of flesh can be bared.
It is a pain you can drift away from.
Hide in the depths of your true self until the pain has passed.
But what if the pain lives not outside you as a temporary thing.
What if the true torture is the complete and total hopelessness of death.
Of yearning with such desperation after a thing long dead.
Of a need to reach out to touch flesh long rotted away, that is so insistent, the only relief is insanity.
Of spending just a moment thinking how - how - could I briefly touch him.
Speak to him.
I have let you go a million times.
And I will need to a million times more.
Maybe your tombstone is just a place I go to which houses all my sadness.
Surely, surely, after all this time I should not grieve so.
You told me to let you go.
You told me it was time.
I don’t know how to.
I hurt my love.
And I know not even you can restore me.