Writing

He pleads and begs with knees rusty and matted

Feet of vines to soak the fall not bound like his wife's

before Dysentery dragged His sword

into her glowing heart.

A guarded truth of us 

We turn the pages

One by one

For we are the stories

Without endings

Like mirages that only come true through

a cloaked gaze

They are dug into history

Encrypted with prints

We locked eyes, if only for a fleeting moment.

You- you're- you're really here.

Right?

I really couldn't believe it. 

Tears welled in my eyes

as I thought about everything that had gone on.

I feel bad for you.

But I feel worse for me.

For having to walk away.

To leave you here in this cold, clean place,

bound by a wish you never truly made.

The drop beneath us didn't matter anymore,

The air tasted different here.

Too cold.

Too clean.

Like standing at the very top of a world that didn't want you in it.

He stood there, next to that... thing... that wore his face.

He'd always pick on me,

about a specific "lame traffic earring."

And he'd always be talking about dirty things, and then accuse me of thinking about them.

It used to really annoy me.

And now I miss it.

I miss him.