"Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light."
-Dylan Thomas





There is no comfort to be found
in the arms of ghosts;

and yet he finds warmth on winter winds.




It seems when our minds are tortured
we let our bodies follow suit
so they won't be tormented alone.

This man was in such a state
that pain
just wasn't pain anymore.











He knew it,
knew that she deserved more than him.
Something more divine than human,
somehow.

He knew he wasn't enough
and always feared,
always braced for the day
she would see that she could do better.

Someone not so imperfect.

But it was too late,
he was too deep,
too in love.

Too much of a romantic;
with a heart he had restrained
far too little.




He was already dead.









When the snow stopped melting on his skin
and began to build,
he described and defined the feeling to himself
as soothing.

Even now he was keeping his promise
to an extent she never considered
when she asked him to never bleed over her.

He felt his veins trying,
Heard his heart dying.





But he didn't move,
that man.

Dying on a park bench
in the middle of the night.

He didn't move.