It was the emotional equivalent of snorting perfume. I could feel it in every pore. To love it burned. But I was pretty certain it would die anyway.
Its’ skin turned grey and its’ little twisted hands reached up towards me. Eyes too old. Voice too coherent for a newborn.
It should be babbling and screaming. But instead it was reaching into its’ mind; that was growing at the speed of its’ death. Looking for the sounds to communicate.
I try to hear the words but they are muffled by the sickness.
Are you going to die? Please don’t go.
I look into its’ eyes as they are fading and realize: this is myself. And whether or not it dies, is up to me.