I'm gone

I stepped off the train in the city of light,

Paris was glowing that April night.

Maman at the doorstep with tears in her eyes,

Cousins and uncles, a welcome sunrise.

We shared bread and wine by the old cobblestone,

For the first time in years, I felt I was home.

I saw you that morning, you waved with a grin,

Days turned to weeks and the healing began.

We walked by the Seine, watched the bateaux-mouches glide,

No distance between us, no reason to hide.

Your laughter was medicine, light on my soul,

And I swore in that moment I'd help make you whole.

Paris, you gave me the taste of the past,

Of family and friendship I thought wouldn’t last.

Now I’m crossing the border with heart full of ache,

But I’m coming back soon, for my own health’s sake.

This dirty cirrhosis is stealing my breath,

But I’ll fight like a man looking past his own death.

Back in España, the sun hits too hard,

Packing my boxes alone in the yard.

Jaundice has painted my skin yellow-gold,

Ascites so swollen I can’t fold my clothes.

Varices bled deep in the dead of the night,

Brain fog steals words that I’m trying to write.

I hear the fatigue in the tone of your voice,

But I’ve already made you a room, it’s your choice.

We’ve found a hepatologue, top of his field,

With diet and treatment, your body can heal.

The lactulose bottles are waiting for you,

And so is the café on avenue de Neuilly.

Paris, you gave me the taste of the past…

But this dirty cirrhosis is holding on fast.

I’m crossing the border with heart full of ache,

Still coming back soon, for my own health’s sake.

The itching, the swelling, the poisonous breath,

I’ll fight like a man looking past his own death.

I’m sitting tonight where the Spanish light fades,

Counting the costs that my liver has made.

The encephalopathy tangles my mind,

And I’ve finally decided to leave nothing behind.

So I’m writing this letter with shaky, thin hand,

To be read when I’ve crossed to the promised land.

I found your letter on a Tuesday in May,

Your handwriting shaky, the paper in grey.

You wrote about Maman and the cousins you missed,

The first April evening, the fog on the wrist

Of the Seine at sunrise you wanted to see,

The hepatologue’s promise that couldn’t set you free.

You said, « Don’t be angry, I tried to come home,

But my liver said stop, and my veins turned to stone. »

(Femme)

Paris, you gave me the taste of the past…

(Homme, fantôme)

Of family and friendship I knew wouldn’t last…

(Femme)

You’re crossing no border, your heart’s not in ache,

(Ensemble)

You made it back home, for your own health’s sake.

This dirty cirrhosis has stolen your breath,

(Homme seul, murmuré)

But I’m finally decided, I’ve looked past my death.

(Femm