There hasn't been a day gone by since I first said this to you,
that my undying romantic dream is to respect and believe in
the terrible things you do. Last time I saw you blessed to touch
another human's heart when they believed you would remove
the rust you just stood in acceptance with palms open knowing
you would soon shut your hands. You're a trap for madness.
Blessed too, from birth to death, with a magic attracting the
most fragile, those mostly broken already. Those farther from
full than empty. Now and again I question if you know what
you're doing or if you're possessed.

Years later, you're still sitting and spinning where others improved.
Boys, toys, and nicotine mixed with THC in the air to breathe.
What mattered the most even to those who never spoke the words,
you let impress the stress marks on your couch. And here you
thought stretch marks and acne scars were the worst of life, and
now you've got stretch marks and acne scars, must be due in
part to the confidence you'd be no better off. Now you're no better
off, than you were before. Now it's five years on, and you've
learned nothing more.

I can say
Maybe I'd believe you
If you weren't
so prone to hard
stop/restart

Some days, it hits me harder than others. I can wake up in the morning and build myself up to a mountain's peak. I can feed myself love and forgiveness, and swear to the sky that I am complete. I can speak to the lives around me of the love that I found in my own darkness.

But my words aren't big enough to hide the cracks that form in my underlying foundation. Other days, everything is still. I'm bottled up with words that I can't bring myself to speak. I lay as time passes endlessly by. I hide myself in the depths of solitude, knowing well enough that no one would make the voyage to save me. So, I just stop. I stop hoping, and expecting and feeling. Time passes, but I don't move along with it.

I could convince myself that I never fell in love with you, that I simply wrote you into a fiction novel that was my life. That you were merely a sub character written on three or four pages within the entire story, but that's not the truth. It was not a fiction story it was my life and you were the main character who was written on every page. There were traces of you running through every aspect of my being. Without realizing it my story revolved around you an my characters relationship. I wish we hadn't disappointed the readers and I could've made them happy about the fact that the two main characters ended happily ever after. That didn't happen though, our story didn't end happily it ended heartbroken.