His photograph lies on the floor burning. The only photograph I had of him. I painted a picture of him using that very photograph which lay burning. My body is cold , my tears washed away by the water surrounding me. I screamed for him to come but he did not. He could not. He was dead. My grief lead me to paint over that picture bloody tears streaming from his eyes, as if he was crying for me. I slide out of the tub where I was sitting for a long time, nothing in my mind but the good times I had with him, the time we got arrested for spray painting the walls, the time we miles to the lake and the time when we stopped traffic when we were so drunk.
I lie down in my bed thinking about how and why he died. He burnt himself in his room. I tried to persuade him not to leave but he left me. Not thinking of me, leaving me in regret for not helping him when I had the chance.
