He smiles,
Smiles as his hands clutch
At the empty frames
Of her glasses,
His knuckles whiten
Around the black plastic life
Of another girl
Not coming home.
He doesn’t listen, anymore.
No longer listens to their voices,
Their voices,
Calling from the shadows
He doesn’t listen anymore,
Because all the whimpers and the screams
Just sound the same.
chris white writes 
Sorry, I forgot to mention that I used one of this week’s BeKindReWrite (http://bekindrewrite.com) prompts, Empty Frames!
Woah. Creepy. Skillfully told.
[…] Chris and another […]
The more I read this poem the more sinister it appeared to be.
Great piece of writing.
Yikes! That pretty pink picture did not prepare me for the direction it would take. So many chills in so few words. You are very good at this.
Shivers down my spine! That’s all I have to say.