Empty

I want to hold myself together
So my insides don't fall out.
I don't feel so well
But I'm not much cop
As an empty shell

Voicemail

I let her phone ring out for the fourth time in the past hour, hearing the familiar automated voice of a woman letting me know that I was connecting to her voicemail. Just as her sing-song voice begins to twirl its way through the receiver, my room mate comes back and I hang up guiltily. He doesn't say anything. Why do you bother paying for her phone when she never bloody answers it? That's what my mum used to say. She probably still thinks that, too, but she won't voice it aloud anymore. But I don't care. I will always pay it for her. It's not a big deal. I take the phone into my bedroom and perch on the bed, dialling again. It goes through to voicemail and I tense up a little, as I do every time, just before the bittersweet melody of her voice invades my ears. It's been this way for eight months now. Most people would give up after eight months of unanswered calls. But truthfully, eight months ago she left. She didn't just leave me, but left us all. I've paid her phone bill ever since she passed away, just so I would always have her voicemail to listen to.

Fog

Black fog swirls around me lazily, caressing me with each languid tendril. I'm trying to avoid the cracks - in the floor, in the walls, in the ceiling but I can't see anything. Everything is grey and black and more grey. The fog envelops me like an old friend, but it's something sinister. It curls around my arms and my legs, rising to cup my shoulders, asking me to join it. I don't want to, but it compresses itself around me and suddenly everything feels heavy. There's a weight against my chest and there is pressure in my skull. Black spots block my vision, like a rogue eyelash floating around on your eyeball - you can see it but you can never quite get close enough to look right at it. The cracks in the ground start to judder and creak. I begin to fall, dragging my nails down the walls with a sickening screech, trying to find something to grasp onto.

Autumn

It has been happening for a while now - the transformation. It's like a slow pulsing through my veins that is subtle but prominent enough that I cannot quite ignore it.

Instead of feeling vibrant and full of life, I have begun to feel as though I am curling at the edges; is this what they call "old age"? I am concerned that I have turned a peculiar colour. I remember whispers in the trees about this time of year - the time of change. It feels as though spring was just yesterday.

Now, suddenly, I am tired and lifeless. People stop and stare to admire me and my comrades - we are all in this together. Our proud golds and reds and browns compliment each other perfectly. We must be beautiful, but I know I certainly don't feel it. 

I hear a rustling that signifies a final goodbye from some of those close to me. It's time now for me, too, to complete my short journey. With a breeze as soft and quiet as a whisper, I detach from the branch that has been my life line for two seasons. As I flutter effortlessly to the ground, I can't help but feel satisfaction in the fact that I looked wonderful until the very end. 

Stars

My eyes rise to the skies

And the stars wink at me,

As if to let me know

That they see me too.

I try to count -

Eight billion? Nine?

A trillion? Ten?

Each time I blink, I lose count.

I feel so small,

Like a toddler in a field

Of long, tall grass.

I am miniscule.

A sadness constricts my heart

As I realise, with dread,

That the beauty I see,

The stars, are already dead.

Bad Dreams

The trees tower above me; a light summer breeze rustles the greenery and casts shadows on my face. I squint my eyes slightly, shifting my focus from cloud to cloud, making out shapes and patterns in the spotless, white candy floss. 

The warmth makes my skin prickle comfortably. I have an overwhelming feeling of complete contentment. Had I ever been so happy?

I turn my head to my right and he's lying beside me, watching my face, his blue eyes a mystery to me. He is in need of a hair cut but I never had the heart to tell him so. He reaches his hand out and traces his fingertips along my cheekbone and I smile in response. His answering grin dazzles me and I feel like a child.

He rolls over and props himself up on his elbows in front of me. I shift myself into a sitting position, leaning my back against the tree behind me. The wind blows our hair, tickling my face with a few wayward strands. I wriggle my nose and he smiles his full megawatt smile.

Suddenly, the sky turns dark, like someone has switched out the light. My eyes dart around in fear. I look at him.

"What's happening?" I try to call to him, but it's like someone has removed my voice. The silence is deafening. 

Out of nowhere, the sound of static fills my ears; a heavy white noise that pulsates my brain. I can't take my eyes off him, locked in fear as his body seems to be glowing impossibly. 

His eyes are wide and he's looking at me, but it's like he's looking through me. A light is emanating from every part of him, right to his fingertips.

I lean forward to grab him but he falls clean through my fingers. I stare up in fright and I notice how he's barely there anymore. A pale, translucent version of his form is standing before me, looking as melancholy as the saddest song.

I shut my eyes and squeeze them tight, thinking this must be some kind of bizarre hallucination. Perhaps I had sunstroke.

My eyes shoot open and I am in bed. I realise I have had that dream again. I wonder when my brain will accept that he died months ago. I wonder when my heart will accept it too.