A Sharp Truth

So she is gone,
And what are you left with?
Pieces,
Of floating silence,
Mocking the stillness of the room.
A heart beat,
Insects under your skin,
And a prodding imagination
Of what hands might touch
Where you have been.
The smoking, steaming screams
Of regret.
Another piece,
A chunk falls to the floor.
Writhing and begging for mercy,
With none to be had.
Just a moment trapped in time,
And a slight, insincere consideration
Of suicide.

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