I met a friend,
For what may be the last,
I longed to hold her hand,
But dare I,
Just admire her while she rants,
I longed to embrace her,
But I couldn't,
Cause I can't,
Watched her walk back all alone,
Anything I would do,
To meet her again,
All alone,
With all the time,
But now sitting amongst strangers,
I write this piece,
Feeling the breeze,
My mind not at peace,
Even though I achieved,
What desired the most,
Buzzed by a fly,
Or did I?

The door is partly open,
Smell of cigarette in the air,
Lying around crushed can,
Not a living soul present there,
The TV displays static,
The sound a blare,
It lights the room monochromatic,
Heavy pressure in the air,
A couch opposite the static,
In the seat a stain,
Next to it lying open,
A book by Mark Twain,
Lots of unopened letters by the door,
Old newspapers scattered on the floor,
The walls are cracked,
Water seepage,
The fan is creaking,
Swinging but not spinning,
Tied to the fan a rope,
At the noose a head,
Messy hair Stubby beard,
A soul who lost hope,
His feet off the ground,
And next to him,
On the floor,
A bent over,
Wooden chair,
No movement in the room,
To disturb the air,
And hangth there,
A man who tried to reach,
The toppled chair.