Apathy. How accurate a word.

Apathy - numb to the cold sinking its teeth into skin, oblivious to the searing pain of old wounds protesting, chest cavity empty, eyes unseeing, glazed over. Footsteps echo in the night, insignificant, unnoticed. A year has passed and yet that day is more vivid than ever, a cloud looming over the city. Time has plucked the cadavers from Verona's streets, has erased the excitement of murder and the rain has washed away the blood from the cobblestones, yet the ghosts remain. Visions that haunt the living, lurk under the porticoes. The clanking of reapers still rings through the empty alleys, ricocheting off the stones.

Apathy is the stillness of the cemetery, the frigidness of tombstone I rest my head against, the humidity that seeps into my trousers as I sit on the ground. There is little comfort in knowing you lay besides me. What good are you when you're nothing but an empty vessel? Brittle bones serving no purpose other than feeding maggots? …forgive me, I mean not to speak ill of the dead. I run my hand over the marble, dip my nails into the letters etched into it, stone just as cold as your body when I carried you away – away from Romeo's panic and Tybalt's cadaver, away from the Prince 's fury and Juliet's tears.

Apathy is the absence you left behind, the monotony of days no longer rendered interesting by your recklessness, the rooms of the palace no longer filled with your laughter, the conversations deprived of banter. Apathy is looking at the stars, a cigarette resting on chapped lips, and remember than you're no longer here to observe them with me, no longer here to point at Orion's belt and at the Ursa Minor, feigning offense at my lack of astronomical knowledge.

Apathy is contemplating the reaper resting by my side. Apathy is watching the blade scintillates as I unsheathe it. Apathy is pressing it to my entrails, tears burning my eyes like acid. Apathy is wishing I had the strength to join you five feet underground, my skeleton laid down by yours, boney fingertips touching.

But I know you wouldn't approve. If you were still alive, your fingers would close around my wrist, wretch the reaper out of my hand. It would clatter to the ground and the sting of your slap would snap my mind of its haze. You'd call me an idiot and pull me in your embrace. I slide the blade back in its sheath, press my lips to your tombstone.

My time hasn't come, not yet.

I stand up. The wind assaults me and I shiver, pulling my jacket tighter around me.

Apathy is temporary.