bugs.

flies.

When you died, your body haunted the place like a very bright light, in a very dark room. I bet death felt awful when he picked up your soul. Your porcelain face was coated in red and paper tears. We were like bugs to your bright light, and soon enough, the room was dark again with the curiosity of common scum. Now, I've not seen many of your kind but you were a terrifying corpse; your eyes were wide open, and they made the most sound in a room of screaming people. They sparked. Tears and electricity was never a good combination.

The day you died was a tedious summer evening, heaving on like the storms of morning papers, drifting through a deadless city. It was a day where I wasted ink, writing words that had already been said. I had promised Carmen I'd keep writing, and it was the only promise I had kept.

Youthful lovers, torn like wallflowers, were drugged on ecstasy and one another. They hurdled the barbed wire, the line between you and I; the line between those who know, and those who experience. Oh, tender curiosity, trying to make love like in the movies.

Summer was soft like your Sunday's best. It was dull, in shades of brown, and suits. It was worn with a rose.

When you died, my soul tore itself. I don't think I was alone. The room stank of shock, and it plagued my clothes, and my lungs like inhaled cancer. No matter how many times I scrub myself to burning skin, your blooded hair, and your parted lips still haunt me.

In all honesty, I hate you. You killed me. You killed every person in that room. You were perspective. You were a fly, to remind us how powerful life and death is.

Really, the only question that should be really taken seriously is whether you should kill yourself or not. Obviously, you thought about it. I hate you.

I don't really hate you. At that stupid party, I felt your hand brush my shoulder. You wore a lovely smile. Maybe you were trying to tell me something. Maybe your fingers were tapping out Morse code. H-E-L-P-M-E.

After you left us, the music shut down abruptly. The clouds of candy colours switched to an apocalyptic glow. No one was clean during the party, yet we were sober off reality once everyone was cleared out.

They asked if anyone knew you. The room was silent. Flies slammed into windows and bright lights. Men in black suits, pushed us out.

That night, as I left the venue, they hauled your body onto a cart and drove you away, in a muted ambulance. It was useless.

I threw up, twice. I cleaned myself up. I looked up to a sky, populated by clouds. And then, I went home. To my Carmen. And I never spoke of you again.