Tell Me What I Did

I wanted to help you. I really did.
But as you whispered hoarsely to me that you didn’t want any help, and that you didn’t need any help, I tried to believe you. So I stood to the side, watching as you continued your slowly descending spiral into the nothingness I had seen in your glass blue eyes the past months.
I tried.
But I can’t make myself believe a truth I knew was a lie. You thought it was true, but in depth, it wasn’t, and deep down you knew that you needed me. Hell, needed anyone. But you were too stubborn. I had wanted to believe you in the midst of a dream, but near the end I realized you weren’t really dreaming, and that you knew it too. You wanted death. I just wanted you.
I softly touched your smooth, cold cheek as you laid your head in my lap, breathing in deeply as if you were trying to savor a saccharine scent somewhere beyond me. Your beautiful eyes were closed, the long, curling eyelashes brushing past those fine cheekbones, porcelain and white. The contrast of my cameral-skin against that alabaster skin was startling. You were always pale, but this was deathly pale, like the kind you see on corpses. My fingertip traced past those delicate, lavender bags under your eyes, grazed your marble brow and tried to seep my warmth into it.
Your eyes opened, and those piercing blue eyes looked deep into my hazel ones, and it felt like you were dipping deep into my heart, asking questions I knew I didn’t have the knowledge and privilege to answer.
“Hey,” you whispered, reaching up with your own hand to touch my face. “You’re crying.”
Realizing this fact was indeed true, I wiped my tears away hastily as your eyes watched my every move as I tried to wash away the proof of my pain.
“Why are you crying?” you asked me, somewhat confused. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” I answered you, shaking my head and taking a deep, shaky breath. “I’m…-I’m fine.”
“That’s a lie,” you said coldly, touching my face again with those cold fingers. “Tell me.”
I shook my head and looked past you, trying to contemplate my reasons.
I couldn’t cry for myself. Not when you suffered the way you did.
“Please?” you breathed, and I couldn’t resist that voice.
“There’s nothing wrong,” I said bluntly, looking at you now, “I’m just worried…”
“There’s nothing to be worried about!”
A carefree smile, a ruffle of my hair, and the world felt all right again. I believed your lies.
A week later you put a gun to your head and took your own life.
A day later here I am now, standing over your coffin and wondering what I did wrong.
Why couldn’t I save you?
Didn’t I love you enough?
Tell me, please. What did I do?