September 30, 2004

If there was a single thing I wanted you to know, I'd tell you that my broken heart was pooling at your feet. I hate staining your shoes like that, but sometimes, I can't help what I can't control.

Alabaster shoes, worn thin from walking over bridges burned and bitter words.

Etching prose on a stone cold facade doesn't make you a poet.

I could make myself a martyr to your cause. I could crash and burn and set the sea on fire with this paper-trail as fuel, fallen stars as flint.

A single wave of molten anger, could consume us both and leave nothing but ashes swept under the carpet.

You hide it well, far better than me.

Does that make you stronger?

No, it can't because you still can't look me in the eyes.

Are you afraid of what you might see?

I would be.