I know I misjudged you, and having ever judged is more of a disappointment than the Affection that seems to flee at every possible moment of burden

Repeated endlessly, the words “I Love You.” Are dull and almost tear the lining of their meaning, but it is not in what is said, it is the passion that flows from behind the voice in the sublime uncovering of the real symbol for which the words stand

You know as well as I that when we need each other, we are there, and that it is only that we are scared at what the unquantifiable depth in each others eyes reveal, and that even hurt lines reproduced in waves break over us ______.

I am sorry that the conceit played upon by me, and the words that so hideously mask those few perfect years of dreaming left tiny lapsed particles of memory tied between us, to the extent that we can only hear each other shouting and reaching for the back of our eyes

is plausible only in metaphor

But I cannot tell you why it has been so hard, and why frustrated misunderstandings lend us the obstinacy to say all of this. Stirred by plaintive be apologies and the crass optimism we once had, but has since retreated deep into pleas last standing before I left to hide atop this mountain of creativity, the same as your captivity.

We have made mistakes but your silent influence is the scathing self-incising mirrored torment that keeps me sane.