The Waiting

I wonder where he is? he asked. His thoughts were so far away from the ledge in front of him. I want him to love me but, he paused mid thought as a rock crumbled beneath the weight of his foot. Searching the sky for signs of the moon, he eased back from the ledge a little. Maybe he’s looking at the same moon. Same clouds.

His heart sunk as a small malicious voice from the back of his neck, in sharp whispers said, you don’t know that’s true. No, he said. Yes, it says, he has no need for love sick fags derailing his focus. He’s all objective and goal and you’re in the way. He doesn’t even return your phone calls. But he’s my best friend. Men don’t have best friends, that’s what brothers are for. Shut up. I love him. You think the world will let you two idiots be together. He sniffed, stifling a cry. Slowly he pulled out his phone to call him, and when he didn’t answer, sent a text that read: Pls can i stay by u. He waited. Shushing his inner demons. Clinging, terrified to feel alone facing this ledge.

The waiting. crushing. every second that passed with no reply. He crawled into a ball refusing to cry because the darkness didn’t deserve his screams.

He waited.

Funeral Blues

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,

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Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message ‘He is Dead’.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

–W. H. Auden