You said our love wouldn't die,
Ring's on, but the lipstick doesn't lie.
"Who were you with last night?"

You rub the love smear off,
You look at me and scoff,
"Don't you have faith in me?"

I say my thoughts to you,
"Faith dies when you aren't true"
"Now my faith in you expired."

You beg. You plead. You fall
On your knees because you know.
That I now... let you go.

When Death comes, I know he will,
I'll leave my thoughts on the window sill.
I'll write, "So soon? Already?"
"Do you think that I'm ready?"

When Death comes, I know he will,
For the clocks on my walls are ticking still,
I'll prepare a last supper, as a final goodbye.
And to those I hate, you have no slice of pie.

When Death comes, I know he will,
He will not come because I took a pill.
He will not come due to ****** or disease,
I want him to come when I am old and at peace.

When Death comes, I know he will,
I know I'll be ready to pay my fill.
All my mistakes will be judged in trial,
And all my good deeds will be found to be worth their while.

I knew her.
She knew me.
Many cannot figure her out. However, I know her too well to be baffled by any of her actions.
If you could see, you could see the deep scars on her arm, forming
Valleys. Hills.
Landscapes where the hair are the trees and blood forms rivers.
You can see why she's here today.
White gowns and purple dresses were never meant to be defiled with crimson.
She's paid the money, now all she waits for is the breakage in the hum.

It is deep. Reverberating. It reminds me of the old souls
Of people I admired, people I loved, people I didn't even know
Lost to the gallows of time.

I miss them. So does she.
If you could smell, you would smell the lavenders and roses she left
At the doors to the mausoleum.
She knows I know this. She is uncomfortable with me.

A shift in her weight. A sideways glance.
She knows my clockwork.
I feel that she grows tired of letting me see.
Letting me smell. Letting me hear.
I hear her painful cries at night.
They are cries of anguish. Fear.
Fear about the future.
Anguish about her fear.

Suddenly, I pick up something different.
A swift check on the surroundings. A movement towards her pocket.
A blade gleams in the industrial bulb's light.
It's her personal one. The shaving blade of her father, now her toll bridge to relief.
She looks at me.

Time slows. I already know what she wants to do, but I contemplate her reason.
Am I too much? What have I done wrong?
What is out of my procedure that caused her to go out of her mind?
The iron edge comes too fast. There is no time to ponder.
One quick flick, and the final cut mars her skin.
It reminds me of a faucet left open, with liquid running without end.
Of course, she screams. However, no one hears.
Because they only hear the deep, reverberating hum...