Desolation constraining,

The warmth and coldness of flesh.

He sits, staring.

Unabashed as time goes slowly into the past

His mind weaving a web of old times,

That was only hours ago.

A glass he holds in his hand,

Icebergs melting in a sea of blood,

He cannot taste, so he does not drink,

A waste.

A waste!

She was a gift,

Precious, bright, too bright

But loving and warm.

Warmth.

He’d settle for coldness.

But is denied.

Denied to feel cold hands around his neck,

None came, now, maybe, perhaps his own.

He’d never know.

“Know she’s gone.” The numbness said.

“So what?”

“You loved her.”

“Yes, when will I feel again?”

“When insanity flips you upside right.”

He nods, understanding.

Understanding, he sees her face before him.

Flaming hair and ocean eyes.

Freckled skin, so soft, too soft.

As fragile as her mind.

It was she.

She holds her hand to him,

Long nails, painted scarlet,

Like the glove covering her hand,

That went to her wrist, originating from it.

“It is you who has the weak mind, love.” Said she.

He takes her hand, dropping the blade and glass,

He joins her on the floor,

Alive, she is alive!

Alive?

But why do her eyes stare so strangely ahead?

Why does her neck look so... crooked?

Why does she only wear a glove on one hand?

Bah, death will come some other time for her.

What is that gleaming object on the floor?

“Sharp.” He thought, as a gloved hand tightened around his neck.

He hoped the hand was warm now.