He wakes up alone.
It’s been pouring the entire night.
The morning sky outside is gray,
and there isn’t a rainbow in sight.
Moisture drips from the ceiling
that he hasn’t had the will to repair.
With everything that’s happened,
he finds he doesn’t care.
He’s just an average man,
working hard to make a modest living.
Monday through Friday he’s a pair of hands,
on the weekends he’s a human being.
He never strived to be famous.
He didn’t pursue great wealth.
All he wanted was a wife and kids,
and a comfortable home in which to dwell.
One phone call took that dream away.
The voice on the other end
told him there’d been an accident,
that there was nothing they could have done
to save the life of his fiancée.
Hit by a drunk driver
who had swerved into her lane.
Apparently she’d died instantly,
so she hadn’t experienced pain.
The wedding invitations that will never be sent
still lie on the dresser next to her
closet full of clothes.
He knows he should empty it out,
but he can’t stand the thought of
getting rid of anything she owned.
People tell him he should move on.
It’s been several years, they say.
She wouldn’t have wanted him to live depressed,
yet he can’t help not being okay.
Her death rattled his reasoning,
slowly grinding his sanity to powder,
and the whispers from the gun under their bed
have recently been getting louder.
It’s calling out his name,
more tempting with each passing hour.
He tries to resist its song,
but eventually his resolve is overpowered.
He takes it from its hiding place,
the key to freedom in his shaky grasp.
He pulls the trigger before he changes his mind,
then hits the floor and breathes his last.
