It Hurts For Him To Miss To Death

The devil choked and spit me out.
It is like he is having the most horrible nightmare. He knows she is gone and he senses that she may not come back.
I saw the culprit get away.
And he’s crying and his roommates are trying to comfort him yet still remaining masculine enough to share fart stories when they tire of his sobbing. He replays their night in his head and he knows it’s pathetic because he only knew her for a day and they didn’t do more than kiss but it hurts.
Sick, I’m on a road that’s up and down.
And then he knows it’s all real.
That his nightmare was reality somehow helped him relax. He has dealt with this truth so many times before it has become routine. He washed his hair in the sink before cutting it ragged with a pair of kitchen scissors. He shut his door and hung the black tie on the door handle. The one that meant to his roommates that he wasn’t coming out for exactly one week. It was his time to mourn.
And the whole time he hurt. Every inch of him.
I’m missing you to death.

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