They found his body, clutching her photograph; resplendent in crimson finery, against an optimistic sky. Now a fine crimson trail, originates from his wrist; an unseen shadow, enveloping his heart. They declared it a suicide, once again, caustic memories; got away scot free.
Love used to feed us, now we survive on barbs, sharp, caustic, force fed darts, slivering up our insides, into stygian confetti, that showers upon us, like acid rain.