I didn't die
because of pain
from razor blades
cutting my veins.
Instead, I had
a broken soul;
always so thirsty
of something more.
I couldn't do
the simplest task:
holding your ear
near to my heart.
There's nothing else
but crickets' sounds.
I'm leaving now;
I'll see you around.
About the Creator
Alex Torres
Started writing short stories back in 1988 at work, when I had an empty page to fill for the employee's internal magazine. Taking the pen again after a 30 year-long hiatus, exploring where it takes me this time.
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More stories from Alex Torres and writers in Poets and other communities.
The Dryads are Calling
They say the forest by Phoenix River sings. Perhaps it is just the wind howling through the leaves, or a particular birdsong. But Percy Fisher knows better; he knows what lies in those woods, and he knows that the forest sings of his demise.
By Leigh Hooperabout 11 hours ago in Fiction
Comments (2)
This is so dark and sad. If this keeps up, I am going to write a smile article. Beautifully written however. Well Done!!
Beautifully bittersweet.