(I made my icon. Don't steal!)

It wasn't the loving each other or the knowing they could never be together.
It wasn't the wind in the eaves of the empty house or the bone-dry rattle of pills in the brown-glass bottle. It wasn't the bitter taste, with only a stale box of red-wine to wash it away.
It wasn't waking, with her dead and you all too alive.
It was the way your fingers shook. It was a stammer and the thickness of your tongue as you tried to speak. It was the sound of sirens, coming closer. It was knowing you would never get another chance.
- The Sixth Portrait of Despair