September, 24th

My sweet,

I have learnt today that you watched over me for hours and more, nights. My parents, very worried, didn’t know you. In their panic, they’ve accepted your presence as an obvious fact. I can’t remember these hanging days. learnt very late that you had accompanied my long recovery to life. When I opened my eyes, my family was around me. Not you. No doctors, no nurse told me the time you have spent, tied to my bed. You came every night. I don’t know if you spoke to me. I know nothing about these exhausting moments passed by my side, in the heart of the darkest hours. 

You were therefor or me. After my parents left, drained by anxiety, you watched over me near the machines, beside the perfusion and you stayed put there. Nobody  ever asked you, why you were in this room, what relationship bound us for you to have sacrificed your sleep for me. On this uncomfortable chair, you have watched over my coma. 
My sweet, please, come back.

I’m not the same, hardly complete, still in pain; I learn how to use each muscle again. I’m unsteady, I’m staggering, I’m an intoxicated vessel of its own weakness. I will need months to regain my mobility, to walk and maybe run. My hollow chest, my thin arms miss  your warmth and weight, my hands hold out to you, useless and trembling. My fingers remind me of the softness of your skin. 

In my cold room at the hospital, I expected the sun to warm me up. I miss you, my sweet. It seems to me your smile would treat all my wounds. I miss you. Sedatives ease  the pain, not your absence. I am feel tyour curves and my body blend again, your limbs release me from pain. My sweet, come back, come back to my bedside. 
Your whispers have accompanied my return to life. My sweet, come and blend your gales of laughter to my days, come and mix your stormy life to this tiny piece of life I drag. My sweet, the hard words and harsh sentences are forgotten, I never told them to you. I am healing, lame and wonky, far away from you, I miss your ironic eyes. My sweet, I’ve laid down my arms, I’m the wounded soldier of our soft war. Look at me, look at me, I’m not still the same. Solicitude of my family exhausts me. I need the impatient disorder you’ve put in the depth of my guts. 

The mechanical will hardly work again. I will have some scars, I will stand up straight, I will behave as others do without thinking about it.

My Sweet, come back. You had guessed on my lips the moment I was going to cut our ties. You have read in my eyes the last chapter of our story.

Before. It was before. Before this inhuman bed where I lay comatose, my loose and broken body. You came there and stood by me. I drunk your breathe, I fed on your whispers. My Sweet, come back, I’m disabled, I’m wounded, I’m unfinished. My sweet, come back, you will make me complete. Come back, please, come back, come back.

Samuel