The pain was real,
As was the cold floor.
Everything else
Was suspect.

The broken window
Open to an empty sky,
Shards of broken dreams
Hanged out to dry.

A forest of used needles
Swaying in the thick breeze,
Stretching as far
As bloodshot eyes can see.

He hadn’t meant to fall,
Who ever does?
He just woke up down here
And stayed.

No more rush,
Just foggy memories
Of strange flesh
Sweating against his.

Curled up in a ball,
Lying in a pool of blood,
He wonders for a moment
Whose it is.

The six-inch blade
Stuck between his ribs
Feels cold,
And distant.

Something red and warm
Flows from his dry lips.

Laughter half made up
Of wet coughs,
Slowly turns
To dead silence.