Trying something different.
It's always cold here where I live. Always. Any attempts to warm up is futile. I've tried everything. There are no longer wooden furniture in the house. I've exhausted all my matches. They've all burned. All of them. I've burned them. Everything. I sleep in tatters and what remained of my clothing. I can't afford to burn what little I have left. Besides, there's no use. Not since she's gone.
There are holes in the walls where the windows used to be. The door doesn't even exist anymore. I sleep between four standing walls and under a roof that's a lame excuse for one. There's nothing to stop the wind from chilling me to my bones but my two gaunt arms and folded legs, cowering in the furthest corner of the room. These days I wonder when the chill will take me away.
Despite the cold I wake up sweating at night, screaming. Sometimes I find my tears on the tile floor and I stay up all night with my hands in them, wondering how so much water can come out of someone who have drunk barely any in such a long time. I wouldn't return to sleep. I fear them. I fear my dreams. But I don't eat anymore. I don't see the point. And so I always fall asleep. And it's always her I see. Reaching for me. Shouting my name. I never arrive in time. Never.
When daytime comes I sit in the center of the room where sunlight falls through a hole in the ceiling. This is the only warmth I feel for hours at a time. I drink it in, as it reminds me of her. Under my breath I recite Shakespeare, the greatest love poet of all time. But soft! What light through yonder window breaks? It is the East, for Juliet is the sun. Arise, fair sun... and... and... and I can never continue. My Juliet is a sun that shall no longer rise for me. The envious moon has won in this tragedy.
I often hear someone crying and I sit up wondering who it is. It is a man, and he sounds as if his heart has been torn in a million pieces. I search and stalk every room trying to find him. His sobs follow me everywhere, and yet I can't find him. Maybe one of these days I will. I would like to share my tears with him. It will be good to find a friend in sorrow. I haven't spoken to anyone in a very long time.
I am a man devoid of warmth. I have had love torn out and away from me. I am walking desperation no longer able to speak of hope. My consciousness is a prison in which I spend my waking days. I am a man running after death, and though it stalks behind every corner of every other man's life, it seems to only follow me from behind, laughing as I turn every bend and find nothing. I was blessed to have her, and cursed to have ever known such love and have lost, as to lose her was to lose everything. She was life itself, and though I am separated from life I have not died. These rooms are purgatory, and the chill are my chains.
I saw her in every lick of flame as I burned everything around me, trying to keep her, unable to step into the fire as my cowardice of heat pulled me back and away. And now there is nothing to burn. I am the poor matchstick man. I pray that death will find me.
There are holes in the walls where the windows used to be. The door doesn't even exist anymore. I sleep between four standing walls and under a roof that's a lame excuse for one. There's nothing to stop the wind from chilling me to my bones but my two gaunt arms and folded legs, cowering in the furthest corner of the room. These days I wonder when the chill will take me away.
Despite the cold I wake up sweating at night, screaming. Sometimes I find my tears on the tile floor and I stay up all night with my hands in them, wondering how so much water can come out of someone who have drunk barely any in such a long time. I wouldn't return to sleep. I fear them. I fear my dreams. But I don't eat anymore. I don't see the point. And so I always fall asleep. And it's always her I see. Reaching for me. Shouting my name. I never arrive in time. Never.
When daytime comes I sit in the center of the room where sunlight falls through a hole in the ceiling. This is the only warmth I feel for hours at a time. I drink it in, as it reminds me of her. Under my breath I recite Shakespeare, the greatest love poet of all time. But soft! What light through yonder window breaks? It is the East, for Juliet is the sun. Arise, fair sun... and... and... and I can never continue. My Juliet is a sun that shall no longer rise for me. The envious moon has won in this tragedy.
I often hear someone crying and I sit up wondering who it is. It is a man, and he sounds as if his heart has been torn in a million pieces. I search and stalk every room trying to find him. His sobs follow me everywhere, and yet I can't find him. Maybe one of these days I will. I would like to share my tears with him. It will be good to find a friend in sorrow. I haven't spoken to anyone in a very long time.
I am a man devoid of warmth. I have had love torn out and away from me. I am walking desperation no longer able to speak of hope. My consciousness is a prison in which I spend my waking days. I am a man running after death, and though it stalks behind every corner of every other man's life, it seems to only follow me from behind, laughing as I turn every bend and find nothing. I was blessed to have her, and cursed to have ever known such love and have lost, as to lose her was to lose everything. She was life itself, and though I am separated from life I have not died. These rooms are purgatory, and the chill are my chains.
I saw her in every lick of flame as I burned everything around me, trying to keep her, unable to step into the fire as my cowardice of heat pulled me back and away. And now there is nothing to burn. I am the poor matchstick man. I pray that death will find me.
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