The last time I touched you, I mean really touched you, you were taken from me in a mess of heartstrings and betrayal. You became the miscarriage of my birth in Paris. You became elusive, you turned at my touch. I turned my eyes from your pleading, too, I am guilty. I am so guilty.
We spoke in Berlin, a little bit. An awkward conversation I broke away from when I realised that I could do nothing without tears. I handed you to the best doctors I knew; they all said there was nothing wrong. You weren't broken. You were brilliant. It was time I saw it.
It was the last time I touched you at all. Now, here, you and me, a different city, a different country. I knew I couldn't avoid you forever; you've stayed in my heart like nobody's business, tearing around, screaming, throwing tantrums, pleading with me to just see you one last time.
You were my jewel, my morning flower, my dew on the grass -- he tore you from me, he crushed you, bled you, and did the same to me.
We were taken from each other in Paris, darling. There's no doctors here, love, and these wounds are older and scarring. To fix them, they must be reopened, and I am no surgeon. It's not going to be pretty. . It's not going to be pretty, but I love you, and if you'll just... give me time, and be patient, I think I can sew us back together.
2 comments:
i hope so....
Lady you are beautiful graffiti etched into the walls of my ribs, burning with every breath to remind me of how striking you have become.
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