A deafening thump, a loud roar,
quivering, preserving
my every emotion
pitifully sorrowful, dismal
I’ve mourned for a million psychological years
grown apathetic, and halfhearted since
since that night I roamed through our dimly lit hallway and discovered your arctic flesh and violet countenance
unsteady hands poured plastic cups of faucet water as you grasped for control
forcibly shaking your body
howling your name in hopes of a response
you held on
shortly after departed, alive, deceased, revived, and then dead
before I knew it, five years had passed and I was
reliving that night on a loop
consistently unwelcoming flashbacks,
vividly recalling every faint attribute
I’m both haunted and tormented by the non-remembrance of your voice
my ultimate regret is not saying “I love you."