My arms are empty,
They hold no more,
My hands are aching,
They're cold and sore,
My voice is gone,
It can no longer echo,
And yet, I am happy,
When I do dare seek a glance,
You dare to seek one back,
Locking eyes for only a minute,
No one will suspect,
In my arms I hold books,
They openly mock you,
In my hands I clench fists,
Which, to friends look of discomfort,
And yet, I am happy,
Our lips in unison purse,
They stubbornly hold the wall of silence between us,
But our eyes go against them,
Venturing to speak subtly,
Our hands forever clenched in a blistery white,
Our bodies tense questioning a fight,
And yet, we are happy,
After all, together we are antiques,
Cold, desperate and remembering,
Everything we've said to each other,
How openly we trusted the other with our frailty,
Trust did not protect us,
Every morning we shine the chips on our shoulders,
So the other can plainly see,
What we feel in secret,
The pain inflicted in our brittle skin,
Our eyes scream different,
Insisting to forgive and be forgiven,
And yet, we are happy,