take me

He lowered himself down onto the honeycomb tiles. Maybe he lit a cigarette, maybe it was just that cold. I’ve become so weak, why- why is it all I can do is just watch him fall? I don’t have to talk. He doesn’t mind only hearing himself even if he’s just answering his own thoughts.

“I’m tired. I’m,”

I can’t tell if his eyes are glossy with hurt or because of the winter wind coming in through the open window. Is he shaking his thoughts away? “So goddamned tired.” No, I see now, he’s shaking his tears. He lets out an unstable breath; I can see it. Smoke or breath or despair billows from between his lips. His fingers are trembling. Then again, there is ice on the windowsill. “And it just, it won’t stop. It never fucking stops and I feel like I can’t even stand up without needing to sleep again.” It’s as if his eyes are constantly shifting. Never satisfied with where they fall.

“I wish it would all just go away, you know.” I’ve never understood why people laugh when they’re in pain. “Can you make it go away?” There’s less humor in the way he finishes his question. He looks up and I see his eyes, but he doesn’t see mine. They don’t quite reach. His eyes shift down, back to the crack on the wall that someone attempted to plaster over and over. It’s failing. He’s failing and I’ve failed and we’re all in this cycle of hopelessness. I see him take a drag. It wavers more than the last, and ash falls. I cross to close the window so the winter wind doesn’t make him cry anymore, but after it’s closed he’s still sobbing. He grabs my wrist hurriedly-

“Please.” His eyes shine a bright, sorrowful green. “Help me.” No, desperate. Bright, shiny, desperate green. I sit beside him on the cold tiles. Almost slick. Surely they burn. “Can you help me?” But not burn more than the tip of his cigarette or the burning of his lungs or the tears stinging his eyes. It can’t possibly burn more than the sear of the death he’s after. How can I help him? Doesn’t he see I’m tired too?