9 - veterans' day

"so next time it's three a.m. and just on a whim you want to skate or drink or swim in the soft pink light of the dim and fading memories we once shared, give me a call, let me know you care." he waited for six weeks, got no availability. by now it was the end of december. he's afraid of this week. god knows he hates his misery. by now it was the end of his temper. "one of these days" he lies to himself, "someone will put me back on the shelf." nine months on and it's gone to his health. he stares at the moon and closes his eyes. it might be too soon but he knows his sighs. he's sick of the climb. three ticks and it's time. his life flies past in a flash. "so here's a picture of me for next morning's papers. you can stick it between the sex and mourning fakers." 'cause by this point he's out of joint and he's got no missed calls and hardly any mixed messages. no one noticed all his party envy. it's a mess and it's more than he can take. he's fading fast and breathing shallow. more than he can fake. stuck in the past, and he's too callow; just not meant for the rough and tumble. he found a nice cozy bathtub and filled it up warm. he'd always trip on cuts and stumble. it's time he made something useful out of himself. a war always ends in peace. it's best that a life should end in death. he's done with the games and the being left out. a tug at the blade, a look upwards. about the light, the only one still lit, he paused, exhaled, and said, "kill it."