A whisper in the dark, ricochet off my heart.

“Talk to me,” she says, I let go of the first.

“Please, no.” I let go of the second.

Hair against my face, the view is all blurred.

“It’s too late,” I shout, letting go of a third.

Wind cracks the silence; her panic is loud.

“Please,” She begs, the chatters of a lonely crowd.

I smile; so do my scars.

I let go of a fourth. I don’t pull my sleeves down.

“Go, save her.” She yells.

Frozen, empty lakes. It’s winter. I let go of the fifth.

Flooded skies, pointless mist.

50 feet down, lonely heart in a lonely town.

The pen shifts across, tragedies decorating a frown.

“She is at the top of the bell tower.” The page reads.

“It’s 50 feet high.” It says. “Guaranteed death.”

A storm brews, a storm settles.

“There are other ways.” She is yelling, still.

I let go of the sixth.

“Like?” I ask, the pen moves on.

“We will find them. Step off, first.”

“Liar.” I laugh, letting go of the seventh.

Then, eighth. Then, Ninth. The last word, “Goodbye.”

50 feet down, her figure a trance I step out of.

She blows away with the wind.

Her voice was a silent whisper.

In my head.

I let go of the last.

A butterfly, I fluttered a day.

The pen stops.

“THE END.” The page reads.

She is silent in my head.

Burnt bridges break my heart.

“Save me,” I whisper, hoping we are not too far apart.

"I am you," She says, in the dark. I smile.

So do my scars.

_*_