Alone with rain and lilacs

I can't remember how long I've been in here. The minutes seemingly bleeding into hours and hours into days.

I can't remember my exact reason for being in here. The motive that drove my hand into reopening this door, this wound, washed away with time.

One of my Hyung's have probably tied calling me, but that thought slips my mind. Because, to be frank, I don't care anymore.

I stare at the canvas before me. It's a crystal sky melting down into a beautiful field of flowers. The field runs across the art piece, a mixture of purple and greens.

I hear the soft pitter patter of the rain outside, tapping softly at the window. The smell of rain clings to the room.

The paintbrush in my hand, stiff with dry paint. The last remnant that someone once occupied this space.

Scattered around me are old paintings, some rested against walls some abandoned on the floor.

A sketchbook lies a couple feet away from me. The contents within it will forever stay trapped between those pages. Never being brought to life with a paintbrush, never gracing the world with the beauty that it held. A dead dream. A dead love.

There is a soft smell that lingers around me, it lingers around here. Around this broken room that surrounded this broken man.

It's his smell.

No...

It was his smell.

Now, it's faint. The once liveliness of the room. One that used to burst with creativity and spill with love now empty and cold.

I look up, the lights overhead are quietly buzzing. A soothing sound. A familiar sound. Something that wins over this silence. This foreign sound. I don't like it.

The dim coloring of the room betraying the usual light feel. I don't like it.

The presence of only one person instead of two, that's what I hate the most. The feeling of emptiness and loneliness. I can't shake it.

I fall back onto the floor.

I'm alone. Along with parts of him, parts of him that are slowly dying too.

The canvas, his  creation...

'Is this really what you think when you see me?'

The room, his  life.

' This is my life, art is my life.'

The paintbrush, his  favorite.

'What can I say? It has nice strokes.'

The pitter patter, his  sound.

'It's calming, the softness and subtlety of it, you know?'

The sketchbook, where his  secrets and dreams lay to die.

'This book is me. Without it, I'd die.'

I'm alone in his room.

Alone with the old paintings.

Old paintbrushes.

Old memories.

Old faded laughter.

And an old faded picture.

Dead dreams.

Dead sound.

Dead feeling.

I'm left alone with my dead heart. One that died with him, on that hospital bed. With countless tubes running through him, trying to keep him breathing. His cold hand in mine. His chest barely rising as machines forced air through his lungs. His expressionless face.

I was alone that night too.

Alone with the beeping of his monitor.

With the cold that surrounded his hand.

The lifelessness that surrounded the room.

I was alone with the smell of him.

His smell of rain and lilacs.

I was alone with the memory of that car that wouldn't slow down, a car that should've slowed down. I was alone with him.

Or rather,

what was left of him...