Thank you for your sympathy, if that’s all you can give.
It’s uncomfortably loud: the horn and stuck here as I am, you would expect an obvious adrenaline rush, alternate gasping and yowling, and frantic fluttering, and desperate wriggling, and intermittent, outrageous banging and impetuous thrusting against concrete.
It’s uncomfortably loud and stuck here as I am, I was under the impression that you’d act. For me.
(Almost dead I may be, but I know you can hear it too.)
The ants have already gathered to claim their share; the train is ready for the final blow, and you stand there, right there agape as if the bolt of the fatal lightening has already struck me, as if nothing can be done. (You make a good spectator.)
May be everybody else is listening to it, not as a warning but, as the final notification.
So be it. But when I’m done for, I’d like some black roses from you. I could take your color to the other side, ask them to purify it. For you.
Because sympathy, my friend, is NOT all I can give.
P.S. I was a rare species, you will miss me.