one month

It's like staring at your arm rot with gangrene. You look, trying to will it back to life. The surgeon impatiently demands that it needs to be removed before the infection spreads, tainting the rest of your blood. But you stare, denying that life can exist without touching, feeling, holding. You weigh the options, realizing that the option you want doesn't exist. So you wait and stare, ignoring the calls to reason, just hoping the infection kills your heart before it breaks.