I hear people quoting lyrics, singing lines of a story that I know first hand.

I just rediscovered a little something I jotted down after my trip out to see him. It wouldn't make a good song; it wouldn't even make good prose. But I'm so fascinated that we have such vastly different takes on the same event.

Alone with him in a black room. His palm in the small of my back, guiding me. His suede jacket enveloping me, smelling of too many clubs and too much tobacco. Packing for the long trip ahead. It’s late; I’ve had too many beers; we need coffee. We need a feast! The coffeeshop is closed. Thirty miles later, there is thick liquid masquerading as coffee. Cream, no sugar. These are the farms my ancestors worked. He wants to go see them sometime. Concrete barriers go whizzing by. 3am. What should we do, he asks. Falling asleep to the television. Going downstairs in the morning to get driving directions for me, orange juice for him. Cream, no sugar. Cigarettes and a paint-by-number Jesus.

I told him I loved him only when I got diagnosed with cancer. There is something so morbid yet so beautiful about death. You have nothing else to fear. The end has come. You will say what you want. You will cry if you feel like crying. You will love if you feel like loving. The realization that it could all end, wipes out all doubts you have. You don't care if he doesn't love you back, YOU love him. You don't care if he doesn't want you, YOU want him. And if he doesn't want you and if he doesn't love you, so be it. You don't have long, but you're going to love anyway.