Who done it?

He lay there,

still as stone.

Bloodshot eyes wide, hands white

in fists on the hard asphalt.

Liquid seeping from his mouth,

staining his face.

Limbs twisted into odd angles,

even his feet were crumpled.

As if they had imploded.

People gasped,

whispers flurried into a cloak,

that which settled onto my shoulder bones

as I stood there.

This was not planned.

Dates flashed through my mind,

picnics at the beach,

cliches that shouldn't be legal.

This shouldn't be allowed.

Did he jump?

Someone push him?

I bumped into someone,

they fell forward.

Running fast,

I fled.

Nobody can know.

Not that I know him.

If they knew me,

wouldn't they think I did it?

Did I?