I hope it isn't too bad. It was written spur of the moment.
And there he sits, like he does everyday. Nothing changes, nothing ever will change. For him it's the same routine, day after day. He gets up, gets going, puts on a mask for his peers, goes through the day acting like nothing is wrong when in actuality he is an empty shell, only a remnant of what he used to be.
What he used to be...
He used to be a man... with morals, faith, dignity, and love. He used to be a man with feelings and emotions. Feelings that were so strong they managed to change how he saw the world around him. Emotions so deep and true that altered his view on the world, and helped him live everyday as though it were his last.
Carpe Diem, he thinks it's called.
Nothing can explain the emptiness he feels inside. Nothing can fill up the emptiness inside. He's tried to fill it up with things every man can think of. Sex, drugs, alcohol, girls, and finally, "love"
But as he has come to learn, there is only one person out there who was put on in the world to find you. There aren't two, and there will never be two.
He is a disgrace to himself. He has come to terms with what he has done, and now can not take back his actions.
Infidelity, though, is something he would ever commit.
Infidelity is something he never could commit. Or so he tells himself.
How can he resist looking at her? How can he resist those feelings that call him to go to her, to caress her face, and smile at her like he used to? How can he resist?
He never wants to feel the loneliness, the emptiness, the anguish, ever again.
That is how he resists.
And that is how he is able to look as her every morning. How he looks at her ever night. How he has been able to memorize her every quirk, her every move, her vocabulary, her breathing patterns as she sleeps.
This is how he lives.
The very essence of his life is pain.
This is how he lives
His very soul is empty.
This is how he lives.
In a plain brick house, with a garden in the back. A wife, a dog, and a two fish. He lives each day in agony, wishing his life away, praying for each day to come to end.
Another day looking at her, and not being able to show his feelings for her is torture.
This is how he lives:
In pain. Tormented, anguished, and empty.
And there he sits, like everyday. Looking down upon her grave, adding to the pile of ever growing roses. A single tear falling down his face, knowing that this day, unlike the last, will be the final of his pasts days.
For after today it ends, and a new day will come.