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I once heard that humans believe the first woman was created from the rib of a man. I thought that was absurd — that someone could be too much human, too much body.
Now, I wonder how much of me used to be a part of you.
I do not know which of us will pass first, but it seems you have already started haunting me. Yesterday, I looked up at the water stain in the far right corner of the hospital ceiling and swore I saw the likeness of you. It was absurd, silly even — finding meaning in nothing. That is, until I try to sleep and there you are on the backs of my eyelids. You follow me into my dreams and my nightmares too.
How cruel of you, Aki Hayakawa.
(Please don’t stop.)
When devils die, we end up in hell or earth, but dear Aki, I hope you find yourself in heaven.
You were always too good for this world.
We're so close to death's door, I could reach for the doorknob and walk right through, your hand in mine. But the world is still a world, still just as cruel, still just as intent on creating poetry out of tragedy.
We'll die alone, it seems. It's simply the nature of our profession. Not that it matters now because I'll follow right behind you, I'll let you lead me wherever you want to go. I’m already out of my hospital bed. I'm putting on my walking shoes. A compass, too, only needs one arm, so where are we headed?
Or better yet, I'll already be waiting for you at the crossroads with open arms, so I can point you towards the gates of heaven where you belong because I'm not sure my body, even on the verge of death, would know how to handle the grief of losing you.
My body is not my own. Could you tell? Did you feel it when you held me so — the thousands of lives screaming over mine? I know now that I don't have it in this feeble body to touch you twice. In my next life, I want to hold your hand, ungloved, even if it means enduring the blame of a thousand lives.
Everyday since, I regret you touching me, but I can't say it was a mistake. You of all people know the things that hurt are the most addictive. When you touched me, I burned. You made me an addict. That is to say, I became entirely devoted to you, and I learned there are many different ways to give a life away: revenge, sadness, Love.
'I love you' is not enough — it's a derision, not enough depth or width to carry all the things I feel for you. Perhaps with all the voices in me, I can sing you a choir when you pass and make it a love song.
Is that why humans write so many songs about love? Because the word is too small to contain itself, it spills over into melody and everlasting pulses. Heartstrings turn into metal and our bodies into hollow wood. Is this immortality?
One rainy summer afternoon, you played me a song on your father's record player — one of two things you salvaged from the wreckage of your childhood. Sifting through cataloged shelves of disks, you said this is the second best way to listen to music, and I thought it was beautiful the way you handpicked a memory for me.
The storm beat heavily against your apartment windows, casting stained glass shadows into the room. You looked like you were floating underwater, like you had been anointed.
I had never heard you sing before, never wondered what song could come out of a devil hunter’s mouth. Yet there you were — honey-coated tongue, smoke-filled bass — singing, and it was like you put your lips against my ear and poured your soul into mine.
This transient scene, this most intimidating distance
How much longer before I can draw you close?
How can an orbiting planet
Ever lay hold of you?
There you were, that rainy summer day, with your heart in your hands and your arms extended out towards me like an offering. I could feel your song trying to escape from my throat, and I couldn’t recall ever letting you in.
Because the second thing you salvaged from your childhood was your heart, and I don’t think I have the heart to stomach you.
But who consumes love with logic. Aki, if I had the chance I would devour the entirety of you, tear you open the way you did to me when you found a home in the scaffolding of my chest — when you crawled your way into my heart, bloody and bruised.
Are all humans so brutal in their affection?
You said the best way to listen to music is to hear it live. I never realized something so beautiful could be so cruel.
Part of me hopes there is no afterlife for humans. Only a map, and in my next life I'll name myself 'destination' so you'll always be able to find your way back to me. Is it selfish of me to ask for your return? I won't ask for anything more. You've already given me so much, yet I'm already demanding your future.
I suppose I really am a devil — a selfish, stubborn, ravenous devil. I shouldn't ask for more from a dying man; you've already given me so much. Yet, I want your future. I want all your tomorrows because what we had was not enough.
Do not worry about the next life. I’ve committed you not only to memory but also to dreams. In my reveries, our numbered years remained the same when I held your hand, and I kissed you the way the ocean does the shore, ceaselessly.
Who’s to say these aren’t memories too?
I hope this suffices for this lifetime:
I love you, Aki Hayakawa. I always will.