The Letter

He sets the letter down,
Runs to the phone
And dials her number.
The first ring...
Then the seconded...
His heart beats
Panic rising.
The third ring...
then an answer.
“Hello?”
Her voice is weak but calm.
He responds,
“H...hello!
Are you alright?
Are you OK?”
She coughs,
Breathing Heavily.
“I don’t want to die...
Just make it stop,
Make the pain stop!
Let it end, let...it...”
He hears a thud on the other side.
“Hello! Hello!
Are you still there!?
ANSWER ME!”
No answer...
He drops the phone
Runs to the car
And races to her.
The house is dark,
The curtains drawn.
He tugs on the front door,
But too no anvil,
Its locked.
Runs to the back,
Stumbles up the porch stairs.
“Hello! Hello is anyone there?”
Rips the screen door open,
And pushes on the next.
It opens.
This room is empty,
As is the next,
And the next,
And the next.
One door remains,
Light pushes through it.
He opens it and sees
The artist that he loves
Has painted the room
With the warm liquid
From her own veins.
Her eyes are closed,
Tears stream down from them.
He holds her in his arms
And tries to wake her.
Nothing happens...
He snatches the red phone
From her limp grasp.
Dials it,
Then rocks her back and forth.
The sirens scream,
The door is busted open.
He carries her out of the house,
In her white silk gown,
And the crowd throws rice.
He places her in the car,
Gets in himself.
The vehicle goes faster
as the doctor tries
to resuscitate her.
The limo driver notice the scares,
“There is no such thing as true happiness,
Without truly suffering,
On the journey to find it.”
The bells die
And the crowed depart.
He stands there alone,
Amongst those that once were.
She grabs his arm,
And pulls him away
From the artist that he loves.