I felt like I had nothing left. Like there was nothing worth fighting anymore. Like if everything I’ve ever considered homely was completely gone now, and what I thought was so strong, was suddenly turned into ash and thrown into a careless sea.

She pulled a cigarette and lighted it rashly, burning her finger along the way. She cursed, at life, at death, at God, at sadness, at herself. She bit her lip and took a heavy drag of smoke, trying to piece herself together. But it was too difficult. She felt like a little girl, there, alone, in the darkness, with only an old lady and the bus driver. How could everyone be so at peace when she was hurting the way that she was, they all should be crying, crying at the loss of this beautiful, beautiful man, symphonies should be made, diamonds should be put in his coffin, epic poetry should be painted forever in the memories of people, why, why are humans so oblivious, why are we all so doomed?

She turned to look towards the moon, puffing out smoke, and concentrated solely on that lonesome soul. Lonesome, but still there. With scars on her face and never fully herself, always changing and rebirthing. The rivers in her cheeks had dried up, as she was comforted by the knowing glance of the scenes played out in front of her. How many times has she kissed lovers by the light of that moon, or heard stories from her father’s lips at twilight, how many times has she seen this place and heard this bus and seen the moon? Too little. She should’ve come here more. She should’ve been around more. She should’ve.
Yet there was that little boat sailing towards a little sea bay, and the old woman slept still, and there hung the moon in her ignorance.
I should've.