The wind gently caressed his messy, red hair

As if hoping he would wake.

But his eyes stayed closed.

He did not move; this was not fake.

His unmoving chest,

His icy cold lip,

Made my hear break and tear,

Made my heart rip.

Nails dug in my skin

For my fist tightened.

Small drops of thick red flowed,

And my knuckles whitened.

My eyes were glassy,

Silent waterfalls fell from my face.

People looked down with sympathy or empathy,

And backed off to give us space.

His skin paler than pale,

His eyes when open probably more distant and dim.

Of all the people in the world,

It had to be him...