He always said he liked the numbers 99 and 999.

He said he couldn’t imagine a number any more grand than them.

It was infuriating. He couldn’t have two favorite numbers.

He could only have one. The rule,

was just one.

 

9 feels half-hearted.

It feels full, full of everything you could imagine.

But 9 is just a single number. It can only represent 9 things.

Just one, small push, and it’s nothing.

For as big as it wants to be,

it can only be one.

 

So, whenever I see him, I think of the number 9.

I think of the number 99, and 999.

And when I see the cut across his chest,

splayed in half,

I think to tell him,

it really could only have ended in one.

 

...

 

“Flowers are useless.”

...Idiot.

 

You couldn’t even make me hate you.