The absence is a presence. The way it overwhelms me, the way it bleeds on me, seeps into my skin. I feel its bitter breath on the nape of my neck, I see it from the corner of my eye, gone when I turn my head. I hear it, as ringing in my ears. It begets a deep, chronic cold.

With pervasive persistence, the absence lingers. I am, in this way, never alone. Everywhere I am, it is. Intermittently, I feel its grip tighten, reminding me it is near, the way a drip from a leaky faucet reminds of its disrepair.

Gradually, the absence expands. It permeates, contorting itself and distorting me, until I am no longer distinguishable. It is me, or I am it. It infects, corrupts, contaminates. It erodes my outside and now it eats my inside. It is parasitic. It is more alive than I.

My movements slow, my consciousness drifts, I feel the life leaving. I feel the absence take my shape. Before long, in my place, it will be. I feel, as the last of me fades, a warmth, a comfort. I know it will be over soon.