Every white light…
Fluorescent.
Every cold tile…
Sterile.
Every look in their tear-stained eyes…
Mournful.

With maybe a hint of remorse flickering still.
With the unknown of what might’ve been,
With the resounding question of “Why?”

Had they called…
Had they come by…
Had they kept in touch…
Had they said “I love you,” a little more often.

Where would she be?
Would they have found her there?
Cold as ice and hours too late.
Skin stained and resolved to her fate.

Peganini’s definitive portrait of Death.

She’s never coming home.
That place only exists in her heart that ceased to beat.
Locked away tightly behind the hazel eyes,
That will never again see the light of day.

God can’t save us all…
One must suffer to teach the lesson.
So that others may learn the meaning of loss.
So that they discover the exquisite pain of feeling with a heart that was frozen solid.