The last time I saw him, his back was to me, a portrait of a man walking away. There was a lead up to this. A reason found in the overturned papers and opened letter addressed to him, crumpled and stained with angry blotches of ink and water. The coffee table was a crime scene, dark and dramatic and scarred by an envelope that lay battered upon its wooden surface.
There isn't a physical thing to put to rest. There is no tangible entity to whom we bid farewell this one last time. It's in the way the room echoes with his voice, his presence. If you asked what the letter said, what poison it spewed (or whispered, since the voice of tragedy is a quiet one), I couldn't answer. I just know it was a goodbye.
We do not fight with fists. The debris of this wrecked love doesn't do justice to the hurt we feel. It isn't chaotic enough. It isn't violent enough.
We do not fight with words. We smile with them, we bask in them, we love to love the infinite ways to say we love with them. As we crumple before that Power, it must be remembered that words didn't level this world, our world.
We fight with ourselves, because sometimes the decisions made behind the curtain aren't the ones we want. Sometimes they're the ones we never asked for. And sometimes they come in the form of a letter, signed in my name.