Because life is supposed to be loved sweetheart mostly with a broken heart....

The homeless roam around to seek at least some form of connection, belonging, peace. They see the sun, the moon, the leaves and ask them every damn second if somehow there is a way for the warmth to reach, for the moondust to glisten back their sick faces, for the rustling to vibrate in commotion with their heartbeats. In the arms of strangers, they think it will be found what they lack. They think life is not so dull yet. They can still touch someone's arms among the harmless banter and feel young again. That they can blush loud maybe to escape from the fear that has turned their souls to ashes. 

But, oh, they do not know that their bodies are not capable of holding anything now. For the want, desire, of something delicate, something sweet has been long divorced and now it is impossible to return to their childhood innocence. 

But, oh, they do not know that the blood would soak their sheets again. It would scare them off, it would scare everything off. 

If you ask them, do you feel complete? Do you still believe? Do you still have faith?  What exactly is your story? 

The answer will be:

My life is a suicide story. 

I haven't penned my last letter yet.

I want to pen it beautiful, you know. 

The time is not ripe yet.

I make a metaphor out of it, 

like of everything else.

A sign, an insignia, a memoir.

There is still time.

Time is all I trust.

Time is all I do not have.