I begged her song to be written for me, in what colors she could pour out, from a throat made of silver. Though, I simply waited while her sigh, the last one, drew out the silver breath from her lungs, against the fiery coldness of winter. Of what I saw, of that silver breath, against the cold atmosphere about, I threw my head forth. I threw it against the breath, still visible for but a moment more in the cold air. As I did, I breathed it in, like vapor through my lungs.
She laid silent, at last, like the stillborn infant never offered life. For she would not move to see the next day, in this dead of night. What is love, in my world? It loses its magic soon as I turn the wrong way. Though, I hadn’t, this time. I brought the current through my own throat, and its life lives in me.
I sit here to write a song about me, as a failure who lives, blaming each vein in my wrist for what I could not halt. Her pain was meant to be halted, though her life went on through it. Thus, her life halted, never the pain. Tears run down my cheeks, like racing stars through the universe, shooting towards no destination. I care not where they land, whether they be at my lap, or on the current of needless blood through those veins in my wrist.
I nail down my pen through the paper, to create the contrast of black against white, like imagining the universe sharing itself with the stars. Like I once did, for she was my wish.
The pain writhes, as I write. As I write, I am seated upon my soul in this home of homes, as I may as well lose it. To be like the pauper without his shelter, and only shredded rags to shield his form. Life strangles the pauper, because the Heavens disowned him. Now God cares for her, my beloved, in a paradise I know not to exist near me. For all that is near me, is the lifeless form of love.
I bleed trails over the page, black as dried blood, or black as wet soot. Like the trickles that enter a chimney to reach the ashes of a fireplace. Blackened, like granite, as it reminds me to the days she wept. She applied beauty to her face to please me, yet the trails of black from her eyes are enough to remind me of this current state. Of a current state, and the many currents, like rivers that flow from my bleeding self, etched like an epitaph into this page. A page, that may as well be a headstone, though to whom? Her or myself? I cannot tell.