You're legs are neatly crossed and your eyebrows furrowed in deep thought as you sit on the bench.
Immediate recognition fills my mind, I know I have seen your face before,
A mere glance as I socialize and laugh the day away during French.
While you sit alone, never uttering a word, with your piercing eyes full of angst.

I never have thought to ask anything about you, to get to know you at all.
Something draws me to your small corner of the park, curiosity overcoming my doubts.
From behind, I can see the small notebook on your lap, filled with symbols and random sprawl.
I tap you on the shoulder, and you jump, obviously not expecting anyone.

Recognition fills your face, and your somber and intense glare fills with recognition.
"What?" you nearly shout, and the hostile tone of your voice almost makes me cower away in fear.
"I think I know you from French class," I blubber, embarrassed at this awkward situation.
As he goes off on a rant about how no one ever pays attention to him, I try to decipher your paper.

My body tenses and a chill runs down my spine as I realize what they are, a plan for ending your life.
A gun peeks out of your black leather jacket
And I realize a simple touch is all that separates you from death.
Subconsciously, my feet inch backwards and a look of horror replaces my friendly expression.

"You can't, just don't, please..."my brain can't muster words to soothe your ache,
I just repeat stupid, mundane, meaningless words like a parrot.
You realize the cause for my fluster and laugh, the laugh of a mental patient.
"It's already been decided, sweetie," you chuckle, and remove the shotgun completely.

The barrel flattens the smooth flesh on your skin,
The pressure causes your throat to turn a sickly white.
Your face flashes fear, all I want is to comfort you.
But I have no time, the shotgun fires, and your body becomes limp.