I always said that I'd be there in the end.
No matter when that would come, I'd be there.
I looked you deep in the eye and told you that the end would never be unpleasant.
You'd never be alone.
I'd never let go of the rope.

But I did.

Or did you cut it?

Because all I'm doing now is falling.
It's like I'll never reach the end.
I keep seeing these moments etched in the darkness I am plummeting through.
The smiles, the tears, the heartache, the pain.
I see it as it is; it resembles a castle of glass.
With one big crack down the center.
But it stops right in the middle; the location almost symbolic of where a human heart would be stationed.
Around it I see a ring of fire glowing.
Glowing and burning and burning and glowing bright.
It's as if its preserving something delicate.
Something tender.
Like, love.
The love that was extinguished from my very being.

Out of my lungs like someone cut it out.

Like one would cut a rope.

I inch my trembling hand closer to what's inside this ring of fire.
It resembles a note.
I open it, and read what's written.
And in the most delicate,
Tender,
Lovely handwriting I've ever seen,

It reads:

The end.