For what will transpire, I will breathe a thousand more words. Though, the one that is saved, is straight from the heart.
While you were true, I merely lied half of the time to reach you. While you were real, only half of my heart stuck to this. Though, I could cry upon all the times I can see your face. I could roar tears down my cheeks, creating rapids from the rush. From meager feelings, then to sincerity.
My lies, were to protect you from the world. From their faces, they shot distrust.
From their eyes, they looked to you with loathing.
When the rope was wrapped around your throat, nothing of me could process the guilt. For I was too busy falling apart.
You trusted me, while I lied to keep you safe.
Back in your arms, while poetry drips from the ends of my fingers, I can see Spring. I can comprehend renewal. I can stop feeling numb, of mind, and of soul. I can kiss all of your tears away. I can relive what was once so true, in the heat of a month. I can taste the warmth of your mouth.
I can devote.
Modern Romanticism 