The night before I killed myself I tried to sleep but couldn't. The mantle clock sounded second ticks long-handed. Loud, long ticks.

I climbed up on the roof. Sat on shingles layered in leaves I'd promised but never got around to blowing off. The neighbor's cat stared at me across the way. A look as empty and weightless as I felt. She meowed one plangent note before she left me there.

Dark mistletoe hung unused from lintels long ago. You and I we stood there not sure of what to do.

The night before I killed myself I built a fire. Fed it the notes you wrote.
Declerations of love turned to ash without protest. Your pleas were next, their ashes floating up in black and white.
Columns of supplication falling cold and grey.
You never want to see me again; I saved that one for last, just as you did.

The night before I killed myself I searched my contacts. Only a few remained and still it felt crowded, filled with intimate strangers who'd stopped calling long ago. I tried to count the people who might care, but I came up empty handed.

The night before I killed myself the moonlight spilled on lawns manicured through quiet dedication only suburbs can posess. I enjoyed it once. Now the silent solitude I sought ran screaming, chased by racing thoughts and guilt I could no longer place.

That night I tried to tell myself to live, while the last lights flickered in my eyes. Ash is what's left when the fire dies.