There will be work unfinished when I am gone, there will be chores left behind, unpaid bills, the half repaired table, the noisy ceiling fan, porcelain symmetry in the crockery cabinet, the cat will get hungry some day, and babe, there will be dreams unrealised too. You and I in Hong Kong, maybe we will miss that, my Kung Fu in the living room doesn’t really cut it, and oysters here aren’t really that snarly, lemon rage in butter, maybe we will miss that. Or I might have missed the last Sunday of the month cooking brunches, or I could have forgotten to tell you how one electron divides into two much like the cells in our body, or about the song that I heard over the radio and wanted to tell you about it. But there will still be the radio left behind, and everything is made of electrons, and brunches never die. There will be questions left unanswered, my darling, and that will become the pursuit of your life, your porcelain heart will heal and who cares about the oysters in Hong Kong, maybe that are as bad as my Kung Fu and anyway you are vegetarian. There will be so much stuff left to be done when I’m gone, but in all these years through all our fights and caresses, the laughs and the unbecomings, our piety and our savagery, remember this, I might leave you with a life to be lived, to be demanded and grabbed with two hands, but even if that life I will leave you with be unfulfilled, I will never go with all these words, poring out of my life at 16 breaths every minute just so that they may leave behind some kind of meaning for you, ever being unsaid.