December

-
Sometimes a glance, a shadow,
And then it fades.
Then nothing. You’re cold.

Don’t.

Endless scuffles to and fro, yet
There are times where silence is here.

December silence they call it, month of the dead
And skyrocketing statistics.

Or do they? Don't they? They should.

Don’t.
Jump.

It's the sound I dread the most.
Whispers trailing off
Swept away on the back wings of a passing moth;
And it’s a unique note, preserving reality with a gravel-crush.

Don’t.
Jump.
I said.

When grasps are slippery and voices become dust,
Hanging on to the sky's last and lonely silver thread,

Lost.

When my everything almost withered
And my soul burns,
When life is smothering me,

I will always yell at you:

Don’t. 

They loved you past,
But I love you present.

So don’t.
Jump.
I said.




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