She would say things like, “I have to die before you because I couldn’t continue without you,†completely disregarding how much I loved her, as if I would hold the preposterous amount of vigor to outlast her, even though the statistics are against me— and I would merely agree with her—but she loved Taylor Swift to the point of romanticizing the lines, “If I die young, bury me in satin, lay me down in a bed of roses,†somehow and perhaps wishing she would die young just to be buried in such a way, and to make sure she doesn’t have to live without me if I go first, but—but she died first... she didn’t die a physical death, or an emotional death, or a death that would warrant burial, but she committed metaphysical suicide, leaping off the cliff into an unknown she ached to know, sheltered her whole life and wanting secular satisfaction—unable to attain it with me—a “leap of faith†if you want to call it that... she justified it the only way she knew how—a narrative she heard since birth—a narrative she witnessed first hand growing up—a narrative she internalized and wanted so much to be a part of, somehow feeling apart from her family in that respect, seeking anything to fan the flames to a bonfire that would rival the furnace flames of Radshach, Meshach, and Abednego, fanning into existence a fire so large that the sun would be hard pressed to match its heat with its fusion, fanning a fire that would kill immediately if one ventured to close like Icarus to the sun— she justified it... using... me... I am not exempt from terrible thing which I have done, but my anger isn’t the whole story— and if she had only communicated with me, pushed to understand the unrighteous fire before her in me, then maybe she wouldn’t have made the leap, but speculation can take me only so far, and assuming makes an ass out of me—but something could have been done to prevent this!—right? am I wrong? whether I’m wrong or not doesn’t matter because she’s gone! she died before my eyes, as she performed her metaphysical suicide in front of me—she wrapped herself up tight in a cocoon like a caterpillar, hoping to emerge as a butterfly, but the metamorphosis became possessed and followed a demonic transformation that I was powerless to arrest—and she threw herself from the highest heights like an ungodly Jesus throwing himself into the arms of angels waiting to catch him, but there were no angels for her descent, and she fell with terminal velocity until she struck the pavement like gelatinous goo that spread across the sidewalk— she’s unrecognizable now, and there’s no way for her to return—and so I take her to a river where a boat filled with roses waits, and I wrap up her remains in the satins of royalty—reds and purples—and cast her off to sea with a farewell flaming arrow to set her pyre ablaze and send her off to God— God, watch her now—do not stop her entry because of this suicide, and grant her peace in spite of her violent death—welcome her back with your loving arms as a father welcoming a prodigal daughter back from worldly delights—set a feast for her when she returns, and celebrate that she came back as I know only you can—and let this be my sorrowful goodbye—let this song break the hearts of the gods in the sky, and may it bend Hades’s ear to my plight, and may it rise to you as incense, pleasing and fragrant in your nose—and please bring me peace that only you can bring!— because she got one thing right: I can live beyond her after she died because of my proclivity to survival, a preposterous need to live and continue living that overcomes my immense desire to give up and lay down beside her and commit the same ritualistic suicide to let the nightmare end.