Too little interest in her day, her mood, her needs.
Too much time spent in the boozer, working late, or thinking of himself.
Too near to her when he stank of booze, too far from her when she needed to be held.
Too soon to ask her to marry him; too late for him to tell her he loves her.
That he always has.
That he always will.
It was always a matter of timing with him, and his was always out. Although they lived together, their lives could not have been more separate; perpetually out of synchronisation (despite his best efforts), and now, the one thing he thought they had plenty of had run out.
He’d not planned for this, (How can you think such things and remain sane?) he’d been too busy living…
Too busy living. (The irony.)
The world he thought he once knew (warts and all) had revealed its true nature: death comes to all.
His life was about to become meaningless when he had only just realised its worth; that he was nothing without her.
To live beyond her death was to exist in amidst a palate of grey, each shade more damning than the last