And what, we ask ourselves to pick up the pieces because perfection is a picture not yet attainable by protection. We’re begged to let our hearts guards down, in some twisted attempt to let another in and board up the damage found, to take our hearts and bend the rules, to look over pain, to not become bitter fools. They’ll always ask “is everything okay”, and you’ll sit there lying with grimace, as you flimsily make your way out of each encounter forgetting each time to put yourself together again, and your mind claws at its walls, are we making the same mistakes again, could we have found love again, and I’ll make my heart stand aside, and ask if you could abide by my crazy demands, because for some silly reason, my hearts demand is happiness. We forgot what it was like to not know perfection but find it in each other, and we started to learn how to live with regret, and the burdens became heavier to hold, still they became easier when we were together.
I met you on the side of a back alley in Calcutta, and you met me for the first time as the dealer kept an ace under his sleeve to give Chris his advantage. Don’t we all want that sunrise story, that perfect encounter?
And yet everyone still looks down on my dearly beloved, forced to hide feeling for ambition, as a hold of depression takes over and becomes her position, her condition is worsened by the hate she keeps inside for herself. I knew it, I saw the signs. I felt it, I wore the scars. And I see everything and everyone pass you by, and all I know is that you’re running out of time.
Sympathy takes my emotion, and my soul becomes a commotion, gathering steam in an attempt to drown your sorrow, and murder becomes the answer, and the mirror reveals all my horror.
Pain is gone. And we, as now one, can rejoice in the celebration that you are never alone. And yet, you’re ready to let that go and I’m ready to let you go.
Was it a mistake, each moment that drives our abuse, each dose that douses our hopes, however loose our bonds to dreams are, and happiness is never far.
And what will tomorrow bring? Every new sound to hammer hope into a broken commitment will leave me without grounding, and I’ll be left for dead at a destroyed altar, and I’ve heard it all, found alone, and all the walls marked with the words to know life goes on, and that we will have the strength to move on.
And what did you find in me? Some distorted truth, pinpointed poison lies that helped you realize nothing’s perfect, and the only time everything was normal was in this young love’s youth.
I feel it too.
I write this to you, my dearly beloved. For the house we made has burned to the ground, but these bricks still stand. Each picture depicts a crime scene, for we are all thieves now, for stealing these moments from ones that we truly need. For each person that took a part of you, I am sorry. For each person who maimed your soul, I still worry. For each ring that becomes a mirror into you, I am sorry.
Dearly beloved. Today is 20 years ago.
17 we met. 3 we loved. A lifetime, we knew. Today, we grieve.