imagine

the most soul-destroying

day

of your existence

grey. Like rain. Hard.

This is the floor

black, smudged, becomes your

world, hidden, covered

you are not.

you believe, entirely,

that you will not live

and this increases it

the pain. Sharp. There's blood.

Not yours. Not his eithers. Then who's?

It dosen't matter. Breathe. Count the heart beats.

Yours are fast, so fast, an insane butterfly. His

are slower, calm, relaxed. For him it's fun.

You realise this much later. Now, you just see

his eyes. They're blue. Blue-ish, with a hint (only a hint)

of green, but still, basically. Blue.

This happened to him years ago

in an office. He was tiny, too young, really. The smell of chlorine

had been in the air, and he was scared.

You're scared now. There's no chlroine here though: it's dirty

like you

count. Anything. You were never good at maths. But count.

One. Two. Three. Still alive?

Numb, now. Past pain.

Reciting poetry, words you loved, and now they're empty, but now

they're there, if barely.

Tell me once again

like you said, like he likes to tell me, we're friends:

Did I like it? Did I try to stop it? Is it really so obvious I'm in love with him?