• With a shattered tone, he walked away. No one around to see the rain take away all soft depression. I could see in his strides that there was little remorse, yet continual flicks of light from the puddles proved that a heart was faintly weakening.

    “Let’s end this the way it began. In desperation.”

    And just like that; no words collapsed, they crumbled. Crumbled under the weight of solid force. A force that only one person would ever bring on me. The crucifixion of my dignity and pride. Yet, somehow, I knew that this was going to happen from the beginning. From the first time his lips met the anticipation of a few hours time. From the first time he let me go without a sound. It’s just that night shows more shadow than light, and Marc showed more guilt than integrity.

    Desperation. I could hear the syllables pulse the edge of reason; and push that poor b*****d off the cliff. I stood there, ten feet from my door, looking for a passing car. Anyone who would strike deadlier a blow than syntax ever could. I don’t elaborate much, and this was no exclusion; Marc was gone.

    The next day brought routine and indecency. The lights shone blood as they came and went. The former, most often. Paul, Creed, Antonio, Calvin, Marc, Marc, Marc, Marc, Isaac, Carey, Phillip, Marc, Marc, Marc.

    “Let’s drop this street,” Liz shouted.

    I obliged. Anyplace was better than Tenth. The smell of Flint was more than I could stand anymore. It was a cavity. Marc was a cavity. And the calls of men were filling, the kind that melts over time. Over minutes. Seconds. Calling itself steel and iron. Singing its shrill call of falsity.

    The night ended. I ended.

    I entered my apartment far too late. I was not expecting to walk that long. She was there. I knew it wouldn’t be long, yet time was always a fickle friend of mine.

    “I can’t deny that,” I replied.

    The shot was heard for six blocks, and the gun was found the next morning. In no time, Marc left town. Left his books and poetry. Left us. Death and entrapment weren’t his style. Only desperation. And nothing screamed desperation like lost time.