I  know this letter wont get to you, it won’t arrive where you are, I know I’m writing to what is gone, to that that is not anymore, or maybe I don’t write to you  and I write to me, to this sadness and to that that I’m not sure about. Maybe I just write to release this feeling of knowing you are away, and never more of my days. You’re far away; however, I’m feeling you there although you are not. I write to the time where you don’t belong anymore.

Do you know anything? I’ve thought a lot about death, I’ve thought a lot about your death; it was 4:30 a. m, august 25th when someone told me that you were dead, and from that moment on, the seconds have turned around their steps to this well of sadness where I drown. From that moment on, your memory has occupied each one of my pages, it has conquered each one of my thoughts, and sometimes blows as a cold and strong wind that is tearing me inside; consequently, I have bitterly cried, sad and angry I go through the days, cruelly the tears rush; every doubt, every dreary feeling becomes a mystery, and there’s a total absence of smiles blooming in my lips. How hurts your farewell!!

Sometimes I think that you’re alive, my mind does not conceive yet that you are not, and even though I have to face the reality, it’s too hard to explain to my reason that I won’t see you anymore; moreover, thinking of you entire, strong, and now food for worms, it’s too much to fit on my head, and I can’t conceive the space you’re now, makes me sad that you are lonely in such a tiny grave.

However, my mind goes over those memories about all you went through, and I wonder if it would be worth that you continued alive. It was six years fighting a cancer, and at last your lungs were destroyed, followed cruelly by your kidneys; at the end of your life, you not even could eat; you had to be pierced to drag your lungs off which were flooded with some liquid that let you not breathe; something that kill me inside is that last time I saw you, you didn’t recognize me, so, can you remember that long way of your agony? That’s why I wonder if it is not the best that now you’re resting even though your rest exceeds the loneliness in my days. It’s the best that you are resting of the days that consumed you.