The Florissant lights that flood this room are what I call sun light. This stale stuffy atmosphere is my only fresh air. My windows are cracks in the walls. The comforts I receive are the waves of cold air that rise from the cement floor and engulf me. With this it’s life with this I live. From the begging of never from the end of now I breath. I struggle and I strain. With every intake of air I make I sink, sink into the thought of you. Lovely, yes that you are but only in my eyes. Only standing behind theses two black holes in my head are you beautiful. This bowl of rotting mush is the chef’s best-made meal. Theses hole-ridden clothes are my newly bought fades. This cell is me life so in that, it is what I make it so I make it what I want. What I want is what we had. So here I am, sitting here with you in absents. It’s not the same but it will be if I make it, so here we go I’ll try. The burning gash in my chest is not do to a wound but brought by your touch. Starting as a throbbing hole it grows and eats all of me. Yes my dear your why I’m here. Yes dear I could bear to see you shed those tears. So yes my dear I did the unthinkable to set you free from your pain. -AND- On I ‘m here but with out you and it’s just as worse a thought of knowing that I’ve killed a man. Life is what you make it my dear so hear me out and always do what thy heart beats out.