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I loved the sound of his voice in the morning, a murmur like spring's wind, sometimes saying my name while he refused to open his eyes, looking for a bigger place between my arms in which he could find shelter.
I loved to get lost in the blue of his eyes, so bright and intense like the ocean, like the sky on a specially beautiful day, with some little indescribable specks floating in them, a whole universe trapped in there, which seemed to glow when he smiled at me, looking just at me, his heart seething with a love that maybe had been infected by mine.
I loved when he raised his head just to meet my eyes, his arms looking for the heath of my body while I was kissing his forehead, his cheeks, as I bent slightly just to kiss his lips, my favourite place in the entire world, the taste of the tea still in the red of its edges, his tongue as curious as himself, holding him just to never let him go.
I loved his hair, auburn and shiny, bury my fingers in it while I was just looking or kissing him, or maybe just stroking his hair while he closed his eyes and lied in my chest, thinking about that hundred of things he never let out of his mind, because if the world wasn't upon his shoulders, he would never be Charles Xavier, upon his pale skin full of freckles that were the continuation of the mysteries of his own galaxy.
I loved that million of things about him that he could never help himself but doing them, like the continuous licking of his lips, like when he raised his eyebrow like if he couldn't believe what I was saying right after he started to laugh, softly, that noise that was like music to my ears, the way he frowned and wrinkled his nose when he was concentrated, bent over his books in the library, taking notes, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up and the world forgot and scattered at his feet.
I loved... him. He was just everything. My days started and ended in his breath, in the warm smell of his jerseys and my chin on his head when I hugged him, so small when I strengthen the embrace that I wondered if he was real, if it was possible that someone that perfect could exist, and what is more, if he could love me for real. I had been tumbling all over the world, and finally, after an entire life that was just an uncertainty, I had found my way home. He, he was that. Charles Xavier was my home.
I loved to look at the stars at night. I lied on the grass, right next to that perfect slab of white granite of that little corner, and I pretended that I was between them, there, where what happened on planet Earth was insignificant, nonsense. It was always cold, and days were too long and nights were too short, and my shirt was always wet, I didn't know if it was from rain, or dew, or tears, but night always brought forgiveness, the purification of all the demons that were inside of me, and maybe that was why I loved it, because comets were mute friends that never asked why Charles wasn't there with me anymore, why I thought of all the things I loved about him if I couldn't have them.
I counted to three, I closed my eyes, I stretched my hand and touched the tombstone buried in the grass, caressing the name engraved on it with my fingertips, from the C of his name to the R of his surname, and as I was holding my breath not to cry, something I've never achieved, to my head came the wind, the distant birdsong and the only thing that had ever mattered to me, the spirit that had left me alone, dying in my arms, his chapped lips promising me that he would always love me and asking me to, please, not to leave him, that it was too cold even though all that blood was too warm, and his skin lost all its colour, and his eyes the brightness, and when rain started to fall, Charles was gone and all that was my fault, the strength had left me and my heart was split into pieces, and since then that was my life, silence and death, the spectrum of an existence that it had been truncated by a shot, he and me, the memories of something that was and would never be again.
I didn't love silence. It was all now. The forest was black and empty. His voice used to fill the gaps and now his memory was vanishing from my mind even though I was fighting with all I had not to let that happen, because that was the only thing I had then and I would drown like a bombed boat without it. No voice reached my ears and there wasn't words that made sense, and sometimes I found myself reading his incomprehensible annotations out loud, imagining him with his pencil behind his ear and smiling sweetly at me from his desk, so silent now, like everything else.
I didn't love to be alone. I didn't have him, and now our house was just that, an empty building full of ghosts where no one wanted to stay for too long, a maze of corridors and scattered pictures on the floor where I was irremediably chained, with rooms accumulating dust and pens and feathers and loneliness...
I didn't love what I was when I wasn't with him, but that was a story without solution, not with an end or a beginning, just an interlude broke into a million pieces by and artist disgusted with his own work. It would have been nice telling another story, find his fingers between the blades of grass and that his lips were waiting for me somewhere, smiling, just that I can stop to be so hollow, but life wasn't a fairytale, and now it was time to take a deep breath and sink into water.
That was what was left of us.
Nothing.