"I haven't written it yet," he says.
"Not one note, in all these months."
Krista holds up her hand,
speaking for herself.
"Why not?"
He traces the curve of the guitar's body
with his palm,
and I want more than ever to be him
for one moment,
touching the smooth wood.
I would make it sing.
Finally he says,
"Writing his song
would be too much like saying good-bye."
I can't believe I'm hearing this.
"That's bullshit, and you know it!"
Before she can finish translating,
I point straight at his heart.
"You've been saying nothing
but good-bye
since the night I died.
All you care about
is me passing on,
getting out of your life."
Krista speaks my words,
inflecting them just like me,
and I wonder how much anger
is mine
and how much is hers.
Mickey says,
"I just want him to be at peace."
"No!" I hurl back.
"You want you to be at peace.