I used to cry at the thought of the hurt you put her through.
Now, I am abhorrent to the thought of putting her through that again.
I now mourn the loss of the pain; the death of the passion.
No matter how visceral the feeling or how thick the air became;
she begged the warmth in her throat to withdraw to her stomach.
The fire laid in wait there, already crackling.
No amount of teardrops could fizzle the burning desire to be understood harder…
or deeper…
or despite.
I recognize exactly where she had been; so utterly gone with only my witness account of where she had been.
Since the dust has settled all that remains is a vast and empty dwelling littered with her sheddings.
The pain had grown inside her, morphing and contorting her familiarity into something new.
Something seemingly broken.