The beige walls of my living room are lightly illuminated by the tiny lights that encompass a window overlooking my neighborhood, but as I gaze out, my index finger tickling the circular indent just recently made on my temple, all I see is abyss. A world home to monsters that creep into ears and play in brains, spitting and laughing. Dauntless attempts at desecrating a once perfectly well molded domain go blazingly noticed the darker the view becomes. And the longer that I sit, and stare, the deeper the abyss swallows. But I am still. My fingers clench tightly onto the lining of the chair and every time I try to move them, the wood creaks and I am reminded of where I am, what I am doing.

Who I am.

Life is so much deeper than what I am seeing. If gazing through a dark window is as miserable as it is, maybe I should have pulled the trigger.

He smelled of roses and when you embraced him

tight enough you could smell the faint scent of the cigarette he had smoked earlier that day.

He wore a hat backwards letting a few lochs dangle as they tickled the sides of his temples when the breeze gently whispered in his ear.

When he tightened his jaw, biting down on his porcelain teeth, you could see the muscle press outward from his cheek where small hairs painted the outline of his portrait.

He was doused in olive and as the sun shone on his profile there were glimmers of iridescent colors from the oils that seeped from his pores from the heat.

His eyes were black, and falling into them was like walking down a winding road in the middle of the night. If you gazed long enough you could see the array of colors dancing hand in hand as they circled round and round his pupils.

And as he faced the sun, streams of gold would appear, pushing and bending the walls of his eyes. He would blink to silence them. His eyelids crinkling like paper for a moment that he made into an eternity.

He would grasp the bill of his hat and pull his hat forward as the fingers of his left hand grazed the dark fields of his hair. The light would catch the yellow streaks that ran sporadically through the oceans of his mane.

He listened to his breath and if you focused you could see how broad his chest was as if it were forcing its way through a metal wire that ran from shoulder to shoulder.

He was untamed, a beast waiting to escape the confines of his cage and I knew this because the booming of his voice as he spoke thundered out, much like a roar. It would grab hold of my ear drums and shake them violently.

It was beautiful.

A lot like watching a waterfall kissed by the luminescence of the moon. A night fallen mosaic of black and white rushing downwards and splashing onto rocks.

He was beautiful.

A word he didn't like because his definition of beauty was like a puzzle piece that didn't belong to already pre-molded ideals.

He was lightly shrouded in a cloud of memory, daintily laced with pain and hope and an essence of emptiness which echoed loudly with missed opportunities and a predestined future.

The mirror in which he stared was broken from the right corner and outstretched a crack that glided smoothly to the bottom. He would follow the break in the glass with his index finger slowly, reminding himself of what made the fissure in the first place. Everywhere he turned his life was filled with small windows in which he looked out of with videos playing of moments in time that molded him.

I could see him wince from time to time and the bags under his eyes encompassed the countless nights he spent gazing out into the unknown.

He was staring into his unknown.

And much like his black eyes and his black hair and his shrouded soul he was lost.

And he didn't want to be.

But it was beautiful.