This suicide taste funny,
with its imprint eternally
stamped
in my head.
It has the taste of an end,
my end,
and end filled with stars.

It taste like a badly cut movie,
with missing scenes.
The best ones thrown away.
Those were your best traits.
Action.

It breathes in the night sky.
I swear it's real.

This suicide mails those stamp-less letters,
postmarked to your younger self.
Where did I fail me?
It must have been those times I wasn't brave enough,
or it wasn't enough.
The pendulum of restlessness.

It must have been after the divorce I never understood.
That was and end to an endless war.
Good men died that day.

Those years of ripe maturity,
with tiny fragments still stuck to my heart.
behold the man you
see today.

It was all make believe, or clever guessing,
or a game of tag with no friends,
which makes no sense.
I could not be brave then too.

This suicide is now my confidant.  
It's been with me all these years.
Every Winter: here.
Every Autumn: Here.
Every Spring: here.
Every summer: here.
It's been with me through
the oceans I've cared so little about.
Through the scenes of beauty I could not
understand.
Through everything that could not fit inside my head.
Suicide, you *******, I'm through.
this death isn't funny anymore.

*I've changed my mind.