Jonathan decided that the time had come. He was sick and tired of the constant distress. He checked the bath water, it was warm.
He checked the razor, it was sharp.
He got in.
His body was found with only a note,
It was a poem,
The only poem he had written in three years and it was his last.
Jonathan killed himself because his publisher rejected his second book and he had spent the money from his first book on whores and drugs. Jonathan was lonely and in debt, and his parents taught him that therapy was for pussies.
The poem went like this:
“My faint but elegant sorrow,
Knows only your word.
And only your word knows my thought,
and my action,
and my deed.”
For some reason, this poem was enough to make both the police and coroners cry on the scene. It was as if these few simple words were the last from some beautiful soul, whose life would mean nothing as the world continued to move.
They knew this.
Jonathan knew this.
So for that brief and beautiful moment, someone on this Earth actually knew who Jonathan really was.