Tomatoes

The tomatoes are starting to rot in the flat cardboard box, their juices soaking into the paper as the little mold spots grow.

I do not mind their inevitable decay, but it reminds me of the shed where you decided you would die of your own free will.

The only thing left is the silence that your meaningless, hateful words would have filled, and the little pieces of wood, and metal that you cared for so much more than the blood of your own flesh.

The seeds of your endless sorrow spilling through your fingers, as your last breaths finally expired.

A lifetime I waited for you to see me, for your words to be true.

Don't look, its too much, but its too much to try to comprehend your vacancy unless your flesh crumbles before my eyes.