Heavy as it dropped inside me, and I could have cried as though he was already dying before me. He was already dying before me. A slow death that took him up unnoticed, by slow, small inches. Took him up every Saturday it came to visit, came to dump its belongings in the corner of his room, came to crawl between the covers of his creaking bed. Crawl between each heavy mouthful of conversation it bore, each dripping sentence silently condemning him to a slow, small death. And I find that he is here still dying before me. My love looked at me with pregnant gaze, expectant of a mouthful of conversation, and all I could place on the covers of his creaking bed was a stillborn we'd named
'Nothing'.
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