I Write Poetry

And all at once, it happened, just like that.
No great spectacle, no cliche or overly grandiose moment.
As instant as a candle being blown out.
As quiet as a whisper.
His own poetic travesty.
And almost as if not wishing to be pretentious, it went calmly, as if falling asleep for the last time.

His heart had broken.

It had grown weak, been torn and tattered, beaten and bruised, left bleeding, healed and scarred many times over.
The webbing crack that had been growing during his life thus far had finally given way.

Sweet lies hid bitter truths, he was not her friend but her distraction, not her forever but her momentary entertainment.

He knew somewhere deep inside she was capable of so much more, of magic. Yet he no longer believed himself to be the one who could awaken it within her.

She left him in the agony of his isolation, and in his solitude he grasped the jagged edge of her indifference for him and finished the job himself. And there he sat, alone and broken and bleeding.

His pieces started to separate now, as something was leaking out, as if a poison. Slowly it filled him, his lungs, his chest, fluid rising, up to his throat now he began to choke, he was soon flooded, he was drowning in it.

He lowered his head into his folded arms and he sobbed in silence, forlorn he wept, he cried as he died from the inside out.