Your life was a puzzle piece;
unable to find
the missing spot
on the bigger picture.
You put it
in her hands,
hoping she’d have
a plan to end the misery.
She threw it
into the garbage can.

“Get back in,”

A thousand messages
exchanged between you
two,
but it only took three words
to commit a murder.
It makes me so irate, at
how that text sealed
your future.
You obeyed.
You stayed in the car,
Reliving your short journey
while the
carbon monoxide
tucked you in
and kissed you good night.

I’m staring at your story,
wishing it was mine instead;
So that I could cut,
Edit,
write a different chapter.
But it’s too late.
You’re already published,
and I’m just a stranger.
Yet still, I wonder;
if a sentence is all it took
to finish the job
what if you had been
sent
one more?
Just one that was different,
one that said,

“Don’t do it,
Conrad.”