You followed me up the stairs,
collecting pieces of broken glass.
I told you not to bother, that
I liked the way they sparkled crimson.

In my bed we fell together,
souls out of a Shakespearean tragedy.
Destined to be intertwined, as much
as we were to be burned at the stake.

Who is entitled to think they are special?
In the beginning we start with nothing,
and in the end we face down the same.

So at cross roads we stand with our backs
to the past. A space between us unable
to be bridged by words. And without
warning you press your fist into my palm.

I told you not to bother.
But you picked up the glass one by one.
And with it gave me a blood stained glass heart,
as fragile as our will to live.

You said, I love you.
I said, I know.
I said, I love you.
You said, Not enough.

Sometimes I think about that place.
Our footprints in the dust.
Both trailing off in separate ways,
with only broken glass to mourn our loss.