the hour in which the world begins to die

the clock reads 7:38. we've just been pushed over the edge of summer, so the sun sets early; much earlier than it had some days ago. the sky is painted with hues of pink and purple, orange and blue; gossamer shades sweeping across the expanse as if it could actually be finite, as if there actually was some foundation beneath the canvas.

i can't bear to sit here and watch. i have to, though. he needs me.

i've been here for weeks, months. sometimes i feel guilty. sometimes i feel glad. sometimes i feel like i'm playing god, like i'm ultimately superior because i'm just not dead yet.

there are times when i feel nothing.

there probably shouldn't be. i need a catalyst. i need to drop, to cry... to break.

i lied, you know. i'm already dead, though my mind still screams. i always feel like i'm hanging in the balance. suspended. tied. he has no idea.

there are flowers in a vase by the window. there is no light left to shine on them.

a petal falls. my eyes can't move away.

follow me down. i can feel the splinter.