My heart has always been skeptical, and sometimes I think that it's waiting. waiting to go back to being hollow, like that old church in Vienna, after mass on a rainy day in October.
I stood outside in the garden: extracted my rib, ground it down on that stone, shaping it into a knife so that I could dig a small hole to bury my treasonous heart.
You emerged into that dark wood, and we found a path together through moonlit streets and storms until we came upon a tavern- your laughter sloshing like warm bourbon falling into a glass.
I'd watch you when you lost your self, and I could see the fire burning in you warming me, and in those lost moments I didn't care at all that I might get burnt.