The night I died was tragic.

Not for me, but for you. I saw you, as I mystically floated out of my body; you cried. You cried, leaning over my bloody and crippled form. Tears streamed down your face, your hands curled around the cold hand of mine. You wailed, like you lost a part of you. You cried like you did when your grandmother died.

Your heart broke for the first time in our life together.

You loved me, didn't you? You pined for me everyday, longed for me to hold you at night. You wanted me to kiss you when you came home after a bad day and make all things wrong better. You wanted me to feel for you. You thought you loved me.

But I was cold. My heart had long since died, though it still pumped blood through my veins. I no longer felt, no longer loved.

No longer lived.

How could one love such a creature? Love one who could not love in return? I had no passion. I had no love.

I had no life.

So why would you cry that night? Why was it that I die, and you cry? Did my family cry? Did my mother cry? Or did she laugh? Laugh because she was the one that made me so unfeeling?

For how long did you cry? An hour? A day? Are you still crying?

Do you still love me?

You cried the night I died. Not because I died, but because your whole world crumbled. Your heaven cast you out, into the real world, and you realized how much it sucked. You no longer loved.

And you were no longer loved.

You cried that night not because I died.

Because you died that night.