after the twenty-2nd
day, some things
came to be.

he was reckless,
heartless,
stupid,
yet caring.

he says rumors
weren't true,
that he has no one
"but i HAD you."

he says stories
weren't necessary,
that he was innocent
and he was pure.

he says it's not
like that, nor
like "this,"
that he was in
deep solitude
and no more
them's and you's.

the rumored newest
was a friend,
so sweet and lovely,
innocent and God-sent,
light and less fluffy,
tanned and less lonely?
no, less happy,
trying and striving.

she:
i didn't want to
dark-mind.
i didn't want to
self-harm.
yet, his words
contradict
what he does.
then...

endless trades of words,
of hurts, of trusts,
of pains,
rushed through
their typically untypical
veins.

murmurs  weren't true.

"not all you see is true."

why can't everything
be innitiated?
given at free will?
said with genuinity?
and done
with no rules,
no biases,
no implied philosopies,
no more laws?
as the sun sets,
from last eleventh,
she had begun
to be in deep
slumber,
she had been
lesser frustrated,
lesser stressed.