| Her voice is starting to fade into the background of memories that she and I so carefully laid out like three years worth of dirty tapestries. "I love you" is now a phrase cloaked in apathy, a mutter of former days that drudges forth all of my empathy. Now just a voice carried by telephone lines and electricity, The one I would have married will have nothing to do with me. If I died for her, she would never know, neither should I care, for I believe I'm ready to go. |
| Dirty Tapestries |