Lonely is someone that hides in sun rays. They hit you with such a powerful force that you can't bear to look. They glide through clouds, and ambush you in crowds. Lonely is an everlasting ocean that crashes its waves on your shore when you least expect them. Lonely. A box full of sweets, but you're the only one expired. A distant smile. A blurred camera, facing the world in your place.

Alone, however, is an abandoned house. Its floors crumble with every step, and the fireplace hasn't been lit in years. There is only one glass in the cupboard, there is no need for more. The driveway is empty. A concrete space with no purpose--not anymore. Alone means you have no more hands to hold, no more laughs are left inside. You are the abandoned house--with only yourself for company. 

bright eyes and

sun rays, lighting up the world.

there are not enough days like this.

fields full of flowers,

and smiles from strangers,

the birds eloquently crafting melodies.

not enough days

like this.

cotton clouds and quiet mouths

no more hateful chatter 

that breaks the bones of those who matter.

not enough days, not nearly enough days like this.

a little kindness.

a warm feeling.

happy days.

〡.

My first glimpse of you

I saw a clear sky, bright blue 

Golden eyes, for you

〢.

Life is rosy pink

You're in my thoughts, all I think

Love, written in ink

〣.

Colors have faded

Forbidden words have been shared

Us, alone again.

Sitting, solemnly. Silenced, shushed, scorned. Sealed sounds, "stupid songs". Slipping, succumbing sorrowful schemes. Schemes, searching secretly. Silver spoons, selfish selection. Surplus salary. Sustainable, saddenning success. Simply superficial. Sliced screams. So-called smiles. Screens simulating sounds. Speech--shunned. Spirits--spoiled--soiled. Standing, stiking stares. Stiff, submissive states. Sympathy? Strange. Standby: stormy stomachs stirring. Slithering snakes, spreading. Sour "sorrys." Small sighs. Surrounded--strangers. Struggling. Stinging stitches. Strained squeals. Stopping--spinning softly. Sudden sounds--slowly stopping. Steady, silent, still.

  My hands are singed, still burning from his touch. The flashbacks keep getting worse and worse. I held him in my hands, trying, desperately searching for the source of the blood--lots and lots of it. I opened his shirt, tears streaming down my face, but nothing. Then, I saw: the bullet had gone into the back of his skull, like in those old horror movies. But this, this was real. My memories pound, they beat me to the ground, with sharp claws and raging eyes--my hands--a pile of hot ash on the floor.

Based on a true story.