He often spoke

Seeming to catch himself in the middle of a sentence.

Going on for short, disjointed paragraphs at a time.

Filling the air with bittersweet memories of his childhood,

Women he had loved and  women that had loved him.

The triumphs of his life and the traumas he had endured.

He often struggled on his words.

Second guessing every third word and interrogating the tense of every verb he chose.

And then,

As if completely indifferent to his own account of an undeniably sad and tortured man,

He would laugh.

And it was the lightest laugh you would ever hear.

Echoing in his stomach and mouth before bouncing off the walls.

When the poet finally killed himself,

No one seemed too surprised.

Except for his neighbours,

Who could have sworn they heard the feathers of his laugh just one night before.