I've put you in a place where it is warm, comfortable, and safe. Where the sorrows of time cannot whittle away the memory of our moment. There is a blanket and a pillow to hold you as I will not come to visit. You may use the blanket as a cape when you grow bored. You may pull the stuffing from the pillow when frustrated, but it will be difficult to mend for there is no sewing kit. You are here for my comfort, not your own.
There is music. An old record player lies in the middle of the painted-white, hardwood floor. The available selection of albums changes infrequently. Peter Sarstedt's "Where Do You Go To My Lovely" plays now. Occasionally, the record skips. Adjust the needle if you wish, or leave it be as that is oddly soothing. You will hear Big Star's "#1 Record" soon. Most songs will only play for a few verses or short phrases as I attempt to recall The Saddest Music in the World.
This place will grow dusty and the lights will burn out. As the bulbs burst with age they will not be replaced. It will grow dark at the same pace that I forget how you look. It will grow silent as I forget your voice. Already, I've forgotten your laugh. Did it lilt or fall? Don't be afraid as your body dissipates for, just now, I have forgotten the softness or roughness of your skin. Eventually you will grow to nothing. That is my desire.
You shall stay there and I shall stay here and I will, until death, be uncertain about my decision.
There is a door. You may exit if you wish.