Tragic Skies

A whisper in the dark, ricochet off my heart.
“Talk to me,” she says, I let go of the first.
“Please, no.” I let go of the second.
Hair against my face, the view is all blurred.
“It’s too late.” I shout, letting go of a third.

Wind cracks the silence; her panic is loud.
“Please,” She begs, the chatters of a lonely crowd.
I smile; so do my scars.
I let go of a fourth. I don’t pull my sleeves down.

“Go, save her.” She yells.
Frozen, empty lakes. It’s winter. I let go of the fifth.
Flooded skies, pointless mist.
50 feet down, lonely heart in a lonely town.
The pen shifts across, tragedies decorating a frown.

“She is at the top of the bell tower.” The page reads.
“It’s 50 feet high.” It says. “Guaranteed death.”
A storm brews, a storm settles.
“There are other ways.” She is yelling, still.

I let go of the sixth.
“Like?” I ask, the pen moves on.
“We will find them. Step off, first.”
“Liar.” I laugh, letting go of the seventh.
Then, eighth. Then, Ninth. The last word, “Goodbye.”
50 feet down, her figure a trance I step out of.
She blows away with the wind.
Her voice a silent whisper.
In my head.

I let go of the last.
A butterfly, I fluttered a day.
The pen stops.
“The End” The page reads.

I am slipping. She is silent in my head.
Burnt bridges break my heart.
“Save me.” I whisper, hoping we are not too far apart.

“I am you.” She says. I smile.
So do my scars.


Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.