Decaying Ties

I'm dead inside. You picked a walking corpse as your best friend. While air passes through these lungs, that doesn't mean that a light shines in my dull eyes. With no fire to bring the warmth, I'm cold to the touch. I, your best friend, am the living dead cursed to roam the world with no goal, interest, or life. Not that I care, I am dead after all. But I pity you, you who must endure the company of the decaying, who hurts over the lost, who wishes he who is close to you would live like you do; you, who holds onto desperately to these decaying ties.