When the doctor told us he was dying, we didn't talk about it afterwards. Ever.
I still nestled in his adolescent militarily muscular arms, laughing at his haircut, his uniform, his acne, and the fact that he was mine. I would play with his Rubik's cube, and clean his glasses. We would sit in the sun on the terrace, drinking hot tea for our hot heads. Love was made like it was the last day on Earth.
The only thing that bothered me (and I did not speak to him of this) was how it would stay. All of it, everything all the time. His thick-rimmed glasses, my memory of his skin shining in the sun, the Rubik's cube. I bit my lip, and he would ask me where in the world I was. I didn't have the heart to tell him, I'd rather stay here forever, then move ahead (because forever does not exist, you see).
I'd be falling. Face up, back down, mouth sewn shut. If he left, (which he would), that is how I would feel. I'd be falling till I hit the bottom and escape.