It's all over now, and in its wake, a huge hollow. This emptiness, this nothingness, like a black hole. It eats me from inside. I don't want anything anymore. Nothing can quite compare. Shujun suggested I write a letter. One I could burn, bury, fly up to heaven, or keep. This letter will take a lifetime to write; it cannot be written.

21 April 2007.

I think I understand love now, in its purest form. But love, it's a gift. And I've given that up now. I've wrapped my love up in that blue sheet, put it into a cold metal case. I'll never find it again. But it will be safe, with him. He will cherish my love, that I couldn't show him.

I thought I would die of pain. I didn't. I think I may die of grief, but I probably won't. But I'm dead inside, all the same.

The pain began at 4, he waved goodbye at 5. I saw him at 10. I apologized. I begged for forgiveness. I asked him to come back to me, when I was ready, when I could offer him the world. I prayed for him. I told him to look for Santa Claus, and be good, be golden. I told him I loved him, but he already knew that. I studied him, he looked so peaceful. I studied his face with my nose, his arms, his hands with his father's long fingers. Then I wrapped him up, with my heart, in that blue sheet, and let them take him. I let them take my angel.

Now nothing will ever be the same again.

The skies were clear last night; the stars bright, the moon silvery. But it's raining now, and this rain, it'll never stop.