Roses on our bed;- final remarks
on it being an attractive grave;- as for us, being in
love is to be slaves, owned by chaotic emotions.
And under the blackness of your eyes— is a pain clear
as day; confess to yourself dear love; how you worshipped
forcefully laughing through your pain.

I had worshipped every tone of your laugh,
never knowing that it represented you feeling so
breathless, constantly down the wrong path- every day,
every minute you pretended to be okay- every hour I blindly
believed we were both okay.