This is the story, throughout many days, of a love that is real, but broken, unfulfilled, and being hidden in order to accommodate a love that will probably never heal anything.
Oh, and you held me, and you kissed me, and you killed me.
Oh, but it was glory.
I remember holding you tightly. That was all I ever wanted to do; I just wanted to hold you and be held by you. But you always wanted physical reassurance. Was this the recipe for our demise? I see your pictures with her. They should be with me. Your lips should be on mine. We have no pictures of our kisses. Not a one of our hundredthousandmilliontrillion
was ever recorded. But that's just because we melted the film. We were passion. We were the climax of a love story on the big screen in the theater. We were the ending no one wanted. We were the scenes that got cut and left on the floor of the editing room as a materialistic and false "luv" story survived and thrived.
We were truth.
We are broken.
We are unhappily ever after.
Oh, and you sit so close, and you laugh so hard, and you look so softly.
Your innocence tastes like nectar.
"We are a lie, my angel."
You and I pretend to be everything the other needs. I can feel how much you want to love me, but I'm sure I'm not what you want. This does not come from insecurity, this comes from the evidence your red-palms triedandfailed
to hide from me for months and months and months.
We made love.
We made a mistake.
As much as I love you, I do believe we are
inaccurate.
