"I haven't written it yet," he says.

"Not one note, in all these months."

Krista holds up her hand,

speaking for herself.

"Why not?"

He traces the curve of the guitar's body

with his palm,

and I want more than ever to be him

for one moment,

touching the smooth wood.

I would make it sing.

Finally he says,

"Writing his song

would be too much like saying good-bye."

I can't believe I'm hearing this.

"That's bullshit, and you know it!"

Before she can finish translating,

I point straight at his heart.

"You've been saying nothing

but good-bye

since the night I died.

All you care about

is me passing on,

getting out of your life."

Krista speaks my words,

inflecting them just like me,

and I wonder how much anger

is mine

and how much is hers.

Mickey says,

"I just want him to be at peace."

"No!" I hurl back.

"You want you to be at peace.