see the crack in the rainbow,

hung there against the tear stained sky. The clouds have memories, you know. And the dark ones are those who remember when part of him died. Left on that hill, hung ever so carefully from that lonely, dark tree. You placed him there carefully, I’ll give you that. We wouldn’t want people to think you didn’t care at least a little bit.

How unique the patterns on his chest, traced there in crimson by the trail from where a young heart once beat.

The clouds rumble from time to time, singing their songs. Songs determined to make sure his youth, his death, is remembered.

As for me…

I am a ghost in a maze,

watching people who cannot see me, searching for the exit. So many of them walking by with concerned faces; scared, alone, heartbroken.

How hard escape must be when walls actually matter.

I envy them though.

At least they are “something.”