He sang along to the trumpets in his head,
as the radio once did.
"I'll always be there for you,"
He stuttered past his heart.
The coldness locking his beath
in a frozen cloud of smoke
intertwining in the frosted skies,
"Then you told me no,"
His hands quivered in his sleeves where scars left no marks,
while his voice was breaking like broken bones.
He never finishes his dying lyrics,
with the notes dangling in the air,
for someone else to pair.
And an iris left at the stairs.

I get angry with myself
When I don’t talk to you
When you’re right there
But all I do is stare

there is no perfect man,
there are the simple, the plain,
the whole of himself,
just so, contented in who he is,
needs not be, better than...

then he is on way to
upright, up and right
for the shades are clarified,
and those troublesome grays,
somehow have answers

his end is not peace,
his start, finish,
and all that is in between
one and the sane,
in simplicity comes
a joy of acceptance,
and therein is his path

Is there even a point?
We're just an atom compared to a million worlds..
If I go..
Will anyone bother to care?
My energy will still be there..