You stare blankly at the dimming glow that's emitting from the flimsy cell phone held clumsily within your boney fingers. Your fingers find the familiar keys deafly. A new light emits as a screen that communicates that you have 'no new messages' pops onto the tiny screen. Your heart feels dry as chapped lips as you click the screen and the key pad together. You pitch your arm back and through the cheap phone you call yours into the dark empty air of your dimly lit bedroom.

Air is heaved from your longs that could be classified as a sigh, but the emotion behind it holds so much depression it could hardly be called such. As you hunch over the chipping desk, your hands find your forehead and rub with such a familiar touch. Stringy dirty blonde hair sometimes gets in the way of this common touch, but with another exhale of breath this nuisance is gone.

You once looked up the definition of love in your slightly falling apart dictionary, the explanation that followed was: to need or require; benefit greatly from. As your memory recalls this you push back from the aging desk, and grab handfuls of you're yet to be washed hair.

Your about to break, you know it. It hurts even I can feel that. The sadness radiates of you like ignorance from a child. If only arms would enclose around you, the pain may subside for a brief moment in time. Yet the small body and blacked eyes say you haven't had human interaction in an extensive amount of time.

The hunch, the handful's of hair, and the meeting of elbows to knees scream tears. Yet none fall. No one is in the faintly lighted, sadness filled room of yours. Yet you don't even lift your head so the ghosts in the room can see the hate in your eyes that you've tried so long to ignore.

A sound abruptly disturbs your meditation of emotion. A light is bright against the curtain where you haphazardly through your phone. Your heart skips a beat, stretching the dried skin that encloses it.

Stands of hair fall from your hands as you lift your head oh so slightly; a muted light shows within the depths of your eyes. Your elbows meet the floor and leave the knees behind as you manage a crawl toward the light only a few feet away.

Hand than knee lift to give you a soft mobility, like a castaway reaching for their last hope, and soon enough that mobility gets you within a distance so the light illuminates the dirty stands of your hair. Your eyes glow a shade brighter as you flip open the phone so the screen is viewable.

'Low Battery' flashes into your emotion filling face. Your breakdown begins. No messages from your hope of love only the dull reminder you are on your own to fight off your depression.