Melancholy of An Empty Heart

My failure as a detective, my failure as a person. My failure to live, to fulfill his dying wish.

He was the light, 

I was the dark.

He was the prodigy,

I was the untalented.

He was the world's greatest detective,

I lived in his shadow.

He was everything,

I was nothing.

He was the mature,

I was the immature.

He was the ying, 

I was the yang.

He was the courageous,

I was the coward.

He was intelligent,

I was the dumb.

He was the eagle,

I was the mouse.

He was the sun,

I was the moon.

He died,

I lived.

But why?

Why is it that

he died, and not

I?

He deserved to live,

I to die.

He was the only good thing left in this world.

He taught me to live life,

He gave me a purpose,

He pulled me out of the dark abyss,

He saved me from drowning,

He taught me how to love,

how to love this world

that I had so much reason to hate.

So why?

Why did I take my eyes off that one moment?

Only to find him bleeding, dying on the ground.

Only to find that the god of death had taken him,

that death that which he constantly gambled with

had taken his life,

had finally grabbed onto him and took him from me,

from the world.

I had never loved before,

and I never will again.

All I can do is fulfill his last wish for me,

that I may live,

that I may come to 

Love This World.