The Death Of A Lover
Ray was cold. The air that clung to his front porch was frigid and cruel from the frost that covered the grass like a quilt. He looked at the drops of dew that hung off the blades of green earth and thought of himself. His entire being was made up of clinging with all of his might to the edge. The edge of desire, the edge of hope and happiness. He never wanted to lose sight of these things, but he found himself slipping from time to time. A finger falling a centimeter backward, and when those moments came, he was used to the feeling of his heart skipping a beat in fear of falling completely. Falling into the unknown pit of darkness. The pit of depression and despair.
He would not fall, would not slip. He refused to be so weak. But the pain was almost unbearable. Ever since Lena died he had a hole in his chest where his heart should be.
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