Let go.

        Holding on for a life not so dear, the capping of an anguished existence. Stability is crumbling in my grasps, my hold is withering more and more. I don't reach out to him because his hands are calloused and uncaring. Still eluding his brutalized comfort, here I stand on the edge of the edge with gravity craving me. He holds his own sanity, sadistically living without shared pain for what we lost. I let go of that ledge many months ago, I'm still suspended, in between crumbling remains and a fall that's becoming increasingly seducing. Should I feel the wind piercing me to the core? I can see the end rushing faster and faster but still not fast enough. Life for me is death in slow-torturing-motion.