you love him
sun and moon
dawn after dawn
in storms and snow
you still love him
he still doesn’t know
(you wouldn’t allow);

you love him
like a silent prayer
from a lonely youth
an ever-lasting need
(now and again)
for family
for truth;

you love him
and the last breath you take
before the night comes
(before you close your eyes
one last time)
is his name or the hope
for calling him home
(“calling him mine”);

you love him
your rough fingers
wrapped around
the trigger like your legs
had once been curled
around his scarred back
(there’s still satisfaction,
everything’s intact);

you love him
but your teeth nipping
at his lower lip
hurt more than the shots
to his chest
and the knife
in his back
(you can still taste the blood,
looking at the wounds
what have you done?
it’s still on your hands);

you love him
stardust and iron
fire and earth
wrapped around each other
tangled in misery
in regret
in hurt;

you love him
you show him
poison and alcohol
burn at your throat
(it’s all the same, all the same
doesn’t even matter
which reaches your heart first)
he doesn’t believe you
tries to forget
and fails
(do you feel content
or upset?)
(no, all you feel is thirst);

you love him
in the early morning
at the end of day
you still love him
without him knowing
without a say
(and you need it
to remain this way).

she breaks,
she kneels,
she falls,
she bleeds,
and where are you?

everywhere
and
nowhere,
wherever
but not there
(guilt becomes another monster
you have to fight alone)

and you didn’t, you couldn’t
save her, come clean
(she didn’t need to be saved
is what she’ll tell you later,
with poison in her eyes like
you’ve never even seen);

and she learns the truth,
she thinks she understands,
she thinks she knows
exactly how it went - 
how you didn’t even try to fight
and why you weren’t by her side
why your arms weren’t cradling
her breathless frame,
(you don’t have her,
you don’t have her,
and you have no one
but yourself to blame)
oh, child, she believes
you’ve put a bullet in her gut
and so she cuts and cuts
and cuts until it hurts;

you escape one nightmare and go back to another
in which she lays on the ground, drained of all color:

she breathes
(once)
she crawls
(drop your weapons)
she hurts
(those bleeding wounds)
she cries
(a thousand blinding suns)
she’s gone
(and you haven’t slept since)

so who could blame Orpheus?
the poor fool went to hell and back
to see his lover’s eyes again,
well, you certainly couldn’t
for a moment ago you were holding onto death’s hand
(her scarlet blood on yours disappearing in the dark).