I’d brave the cruel cold to breathe your air. I’d wait a lifetime and another. I’d make songs out of wasted words. I’d sing them in symphonies in lullabies sweet, I would.

I’d say things like these and mean them for you.

The frosted trees stand watching. You are my moment. You are my moment.

There are pearls that form
from frozen mist
from silver clouds
Which carry my breath
as I breathe your name;
To pluck from air
To strand together
And wear around my throat.

I am a heart caged by bone wrapped by skin. I have felt tears frozen on flesh as they fall. I sleep in the shadows I have not seen the sun for days. I am broken but I can’t hurt you. And I would break still infinite times over.

So you don’t have to.

Brittle and breakable bones. The wretched frame you now parade in, seeking company with the vermin. Cobweb spaces filled with dead air. Shifting shapes meant to intimidate. Stilted. Hollow. There is a story behind this. You shall tell it as such: Grandiose memories fabricated in place of ruins. Of how things came to fall, of why they came to end. A story there must be. Even a tragedy deserves to be told.

It was legendary while it lasted.

Actually

People never really mean anything they feel.

Unless they shouldn’t.
Or should.
Or can’t.

The Way The Story Goes

Lies are constructed to justify actions. I Love You’s are said in vain. I’m Sorry’s are uttered to placate. Someone breaks a promise or a back is stabbed. The whore remains a whore. The truth is still the truth. The villain paints herself the victim. The smoking gun is locked in a secret place. And the lovers ride away into the sunset, like they always always do.