Muscles strain with the effort, each one fit to burst from this skin in protest of the things I do for you. When I saw you falling by I couldn’t help but to throw out my arm for you to grab. I will anchor you to safety. Sometimes I think that this act, rescuing you, is all I know.
A toast! To those buildings from our lives which at times meant so much, and how we saw them torn down. To those people, who we loved and hated and ignored and couldn’t be away from, and to how we stood by to see them torn apart. A toast to the rips and tears.
When I’m not around, and this dark world looms like death about your aspect, how do you go on? Do you have a bevy of pretenders, waiting in the wings to assume the mantle of hero for you, at your beck and call? I think not. No, the state that I always find you in. Teetering on oblivion. Breathing in your own acrid impending ruin.
A toast! To the victimless crimes that always find themselves a victim. To the altruist with ulterior motives. To the new car with seven hundred miles on it. A toast to the rut I find you in.
How could I do anything other than rebuild you? I sit and cobble you from the heart break you discovered on you path to forget or forgo. With delicate hands and loose calculations I will rend you into a form that resembles yourself, and when I am done I will walk away. You have never once thanked me.
A toast! To the victimless victim of self inflicted crime. To those torn down and made whole again. To buildings wrecked and replaced. To the occasional altruist with understandable ulterior motives.