You made us bleed.*
Bleed from a place deep within us. Where it does not appear as a light red, or even crimson.
But a dark scarlet.
Darker than the void you so carelessly cast us in.
You left us with nothing but the company of the Solitude, who recites our failures to us with each nightfall like songs of victory.
Our only food was the shattered promises that you left behind with your departure, as they shred our tongue which spoke only words of affection and adoration to you.
Our only drink was the burning passion we once used to keep you warm during your cold isolation, which has now festered and rotted, tasting only of boiling venom now.
Yet despite this diet of agony and woe, we cannot help but love you.
But you do not reciprocate these feelings which we hold, you merely mocked them by filling our ears with fantasies and false assurances.
So we have grown tentative.
We have forged a fortress from the flesh of the fetid Solitude, to safeguard that which you have left in fine fragments.
From its bones we have constructed monolithic walls and barriers.
From its soul we have crafted chains and blades, to stave off those who would seek to destroy what is left of it.
We have assured ourselves that none shall have safe passage within, unless we so willed.
And yet when you return after months of silence with nothing more than your beautiful sapphire eyes, and your lips curled into a gentle smile, you have shaken the very foundation of our fortress.
Even the sight of your very name causes the whispers of the Solitude to echo in its halls.
We do not know what has brought you back to our tormented path, but know that it will not be as welcoming as it once was.
There will not be any words of gentleness or amour as before, but rather a single, bitter phrase.
*En garde.
