Updated: Sep 5
I live in a house of dead. The still quietness of this place echoes woes of sorrow and despair. I, so young cannot wait to die. To die and join those gone to the region of shadow. Who would find me when I am dead, in a house full of dread? Aimlessly, I wander only to maunder, "I miss them. I miss her." Longing and suffering to love and be loved torments me in a loneliness unbroken. I am alone.
"Who am I? Is this me?" I wallow.
I live in a house of dead. No longer the touch of her in my arms, the warmth of her against me, my arm underneath her head, and sleeping together in my bed. No more the bliss of caressing her breast, the fullness of her chest where her heart beats, and lulls me to rest. There is only the emptiness of where she once laid, her space next to me I stare, and lament to fade.
"Miserable am I. Now, who am I?"
I live in a house of dead. The stillness gives no token for I am broken. Loving myself, knowing my worth not to die, but not to know how to live. Haunted by the memories of them, frequented in the memories of her, is there no place I can inter? I consign into this charnel house where my soul can find no release from its eternal sorrow. Dreary, my darkest hour. I hear the bells toll from the tower.