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I see your death so much I just can't shake the memory—how's it going to get me? Will my grief spare me, or be my enemy? When it begins to loom can I assume it's you, or God who's forgiven me?
If I died tomorrow, that would be enough. If you'd grant me time to say goodbye or apologize—but I couldn't ask that much, not after what I've done.
If I died tomorrow, you wouldn't be satisfied. Because you've never been satisfied and even now that you've died, it still isn't enough. Was anything ever enough for you? Not enough women, not enough time, not enough victory and not a world wide enough—
But the world was wide enough; that was not your mistake, but mine, and now that you've truly become history I see... you were running out of time.
You knew, didn't you? Did you see it coming and refuse to flee? Was it like a beat without a melody?
...Did you know it would be me?
Were we more than a friendly rivalry—was it real animosity? Was I the reason why you were never satisfied (I promise I didn't know) and you were running out of time (I promise I regret it every second I'm alive)?
When I told you to talk less and smile more—I told you the day we met, but did you take it as a warning or a threat? Is that what started this mess, is it why you promptly talked more and smiled less? Was it a mistake or would it have happened anyway, should I have realized that you'd take and you'd take until the stakes became too high?
Because I've been wondering since the second that you died.
I don't think I expected you to wait even for a second but God, if you'd had an ounce of restraint... maybe that would have lessened the lessons and the shame. Do I blame you? No more or less than I blame myself or the rest who couldn't tame you—do you blame me? I wouldn't blame you.
If you could have changed history without me, if you'd have had the same victories without me, if I'd known you would change more and gone on to live... well, I'd have stepped right out of the narrative. Before the course of things, before we ever met—not to say that meeting you is something I could ever regret.
I regret not trying to understand, not trying to not be the kind of man I was and am, not having enough passion or enthusiasm to be a right hand (not being in the room where it happens).
I regret that I never thought to just look around, look around and see that the world was wide enough.
Maybe I didn't go outside enough.
I regret doubting you were the bigger man. It was the coward in me that pulled the trigger but the gunshot wasn't louder than my shout—there were a million things I hadn't said and you were falling down, down, Alexander—
I had no choice, I fled the scene. I regret the scene. I got a drink.
Now history looks away from me but wherever I go there's eyes on me—I keep drinking. The bottles run dry. I drink alone but I don't think for a second that I could be free no matter how hard I tried because I have too much time.
And without you in it, the world is too wide.
And yet I'm not as ready to leave it as I thought I'd be; my soul's too heavy (to say goodbye) not to hide and too fraught with fear to atone for my crimes, to go against all I've been taught:
(If you talk, you're gonna get shot.)