It was cold
the night she left us.
Her body ached in pain
as she held the gun.
Her thoughts were dark, dreary, morbid.
We never thought to ask
why she didn't smile anymore.
Her eyes were like a shut down motel,
dark and closed and creepy.
Her teeth were yellow,
for only they could stop the words from spilling out.
She had stopped eating,
she left for lunch.
But we just thought she had met someone.
And we were right,
in one way or another.
She had met a man,
a man that reeks of decay, and death, and sorrow.
He only wears black, even on the hottest days.
His face is made of bone, and nothing but.
We will all meet this man at one point,
he is Death.
How we meet him, well that is up to him.
For her, he chose sooner rather than later.
I wonder if she regrets it,
I hope she doesn't.
She deserves to be happy now.
I wonder what caused her to do it.
Was it Bill, who played practical jokes?
No, she loved those.
Was it Ted, who hit on her everyday?
No, he apologized.
Was it me? Did I do it?
Yes. I must've. I had to.
Why else would she do it?
Maybe it was when I tripped her.
But she knew that was on accident.
Maybe it was when I kissed her.
But she kissed me back.
Maybe, just maybe, it was because I never told her I loved her.
Maybe. That word will be the death of me.
As it was of her.