thick jutting bones, enclosed shoulder blades and
rooted collarbones, she couldn't find
the words to say,

*i need help

Their sea foam apartment has soaked up the ashes that have hit their bedroom carpet, as well as the remnants of silent conversations passed between quiet lips. She found him in his Victorian chair that he had acquired from last year's flea market.

But staring. As if he wanted to mold into the inanimate walls, so that glares became passing glances, thoughts and feelings would strip into the air. The very fabrics of his mind would form to nothing - nothing significant. He mumbled heavy words towards the window, his view of family distorted under his parent's clumsy hands. She knew his hatred pulsed behind every memory of "family".

She thought, "but they grew older and so did we".

His eyes had never looked so dull. The reluctance in his face reminded her that she was tired. Not tired of her bed. But of this- blanket of clouded emotions. She herself collapsed next to him, freeing her dismantled wonders and collected pool of what used to be.

In a circle-the-drain sort of way, he said that it's killing him.

Killing you? I think killing both of us.
Hesitating, her voice broke the silence.

"Maybe that's our tragic flaw; we think too alike. If you're tired my love, then I feel the same."

There was that night when he heard the anxiety spiking her voice.

He watched her chest flutter, the shallow breath, the wide-eyed panic.

Hours of crying turning her waterlogged.

And all he can offer is; "your eyes look pretty when you cry".

He was always marveling at tears.

But god, they glitter like stars.

He wants her to leave him; sometimes he begs her.

His new medication is not working, it makes him feel like ****,

he wakes up in the morning and can’t get out of bed,

the only side of the moon visible to him is the dark side,

he feels worthless, hopeless, a body full of puddles

and foreign dialect broken into choppy English.

He is finding that love is exhausting, almost physically draining,

like teetering on the edge of recovery after being home sick for two weeks.

On the nights when it gets so bad that he stands on the edge

of the roof and watches the city lights below call him home,

she stands behind him.

Not touching him, not holding on to his arm.

Not pulling him back from the edge.

Just standing there, her presence like a ghost,

the kind that haunts its owner gently, almost lovingly,

as if to let the haunted know they’ll never truly be alone.

He used his last breath.

She realized now;
no others had sensed how vulnerable he was.

If there is anything beautiful
it's boring winter nights.

When she misses the warmth, slowly,
she would sigh.
Her words slowed down.

Her words stopped and she would be content

Space may not need you-

I won't let go or let the pain lessen; it's there for a reason.

A gap where our hearts learned separate languages.

There's enough room for both of us.

Take my arms and breathe the pain; enjoy this feeling.