Despair

Despair is the heart of the man who painted his room the colour of the night, who nailed the door shut and barred the windows. It is the fist that grips the same man's heart as he sits on the dark marble tiles, trembling, as he stares into the darkness, neither crying nor remembering.

Despair is the cruel star that winked on the young man who was just passing by, who left his heart on this beach years ago. It is in the hot tears that creep down his cheek as he sits and remembers and knows that those friends and memories are fading; the starlight splits into a mocking kaleidoscope in his red eyes.

Despair is hands of the counsellor who goes home, every night, to a lonely flat. The same hands that cradles her tired head as she stares at the telephone, hands that now slowly dial a random number, because she just needs to hear a voice, any voice; her mind wanders to thick length of rope she bought years ago.

Despair is the lips of the man who lies whenever a friend asks how he is, saying that he is fine, diverting the topic from anything to do with the burdens that weigh down his every step, every word. It is the same lips that tastes the salt of his tears as he cries in the dark at night, the lips that does not know how to express itself.

Despair is the unspoken and unheard, it is the dark beyond the stars that ends all light, it is the gleaming end of the sharpest edge of a merciful knife. Despair is before hope, and after hope, it is constancy and uniformity, the unbroken run of a predator hunting its prey to its inevitable end.

Despair is the deepest depth, the most blinding blackness, the friend you once had, the hope you once cradled, the life you thought you remembered, the years that you wasted, the tears that went unseen, the hugs you will never give again, the kisses you will never have again, the flowers that wilted, the sea of a drowning man and the forgiving noose. Despair is itself, and it is strong.