To be the victim, or to create victims, in a world where tears cannot let go without running far. I held her hand to still her pace from the shore. I held her waist, to continue on the dance through life. I twisted my face, so that pain would be mimicked. I bled my mind into her heart, to cause her to scream.
Wishful. Wantful. Yearning. To something that never rises, without falling down. It is the path. The simple path, that moves on in a direction, not behind me. For I cover the rest with snow. I cover my tears with ice. I blow a candle out with greater flame. I run the glaciers past my feet, with an oldness I cannot repeat.
She rises, and then, she revels in her fall. Like an angel that never had wings, music to her beating heart, a thought to find shelter in her skull. I can bleed an ocean for her smile, from somewhere that never has a place in eternity. I can then push her to swim in that ocean, to find some hint of our limitation. She can smell the blood coated by iron, while the iron is coated in blood.
Love is the only scent I can breathe. My tears are forever on my path, directly south. My forward direction is to something so needful, so wasteful.
Fuel my heart, and I will throw flame on something else.