You slipped away from us and like a child of winter,
and found yourself in the conclusion of an ultimate hibernation.
Sleeping beneath the lifeless drapes that cover your windows,
your eyes were like tiny symphonies that stole light from the prospect of truth
(Only, you never knew it)
It seemed as though the grin you kept was sharp
Like a knife….
and I suppose it cut too deeply,
sinking into the flesh of facts you could not change
so you ran away
and found a place to make the trembles stop.
It was before March, and you were nowhere to be found.
The vacant shadow left in your empty room described the remnants of your voice
…but no one ever heard you
(Or so you thought)
You once told me about the sadness.
I remember it perfectly
We stood in front of a picture within a picture;
the kind that if you stare at, you can see an image hidden in the middle.
Explaining, “I never see the hidden picture.”
You told me, “That’s what depression feels like.”
It’s like reaching for what you want;
except, whatever you want is always just beyond your grip.
Every color is muted; every sound has a flaw,
and everything you touch seems inaccurate,
as if you’ve been deprived of its value
You were right, by the way.
Depression is not seeing the image within the big picture.
And those who can see, simply don’t understand
But twilight snatched its time a bit too early in your case
And it’s not that anyone wants to die….
….You just want it all to stop (I get that)
I wonder if it did
Or does it go on ….like an unending echo?
You slipped away without a goodbye
Without a letter
Without knowing your own value
And to me….
that is the real tragedy
Sleep well, old friend.