Death rain

I talk to you but you don’t talk back.  Our communication is strained, as if we are both separated by some sound-proof glass wall, you see me everyday, what I wear, my smiles, my eyes…but you don’t seem to hear what I say. I guess this is how it would be if I am dead, so am I?  If life exists on multiple levels, and death is the space where life ceases to exist, if people who can be trusted, people who are genuine seem to be on the other side, seeming no longer to exist, then am I not dead?  I search your eyes, now with as little hope as I can allow that you are real, and by real I mean, no hidden agendas, no changing motives, just as you are, no games, no expectations…just real.

The most painful death…is the little hope, screaming that just maybe everyone is not the same, and just maybe those eyes and those smiles are not just gorgeous enough to hide the snares  the games and the agenda.  Empty and carved out as this war in my chest rages, spreading its weakness and pain to my bones, causing tears to rain…


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