Looking back, it seemed surreal that he had lost everything in a state of mind. People always leave, they live like they’re leaving, and if he can’t do it, then they do it better. He stretched his arms into the secrets of eternity, and in the unreasonable, uncomfortable standstill confessed to himself what he had known all along – he was alone.
He was always alone. Forever.
Come nightfall, he pleaded, and drape him in hues of gloom, in the darkening sky, while the clouds twitched with mistakes. The jersey shirt he wore expanded as a royal umbrella for his shoes as he put his hands above his head, its white expanse wet with rain, and his chest cold, no dry eye either, it was just one drop of rain over another on his sighing skin. Radio waves grizzled in the air, and his hands dropped down and gripped the metal of the railing.
Could a wall ever be enough to lean on? And can bones dressed in flesh help you stand every day? A piece of paper to paint out the complications of desolation, and lonesome time? He was learning to survive being alone, he never had to practice. As if some illusion of a crowd, or some grinning people had kept him hidden from the truth. And as the night blared in the accents of a fading movie montage, his skin ran six feet to keep him covered, as hours burned onto him.