What a shrewd, cruel man I am.
Cleverly hiding my emotions
away from reproach.
If I were a bird,
my feathers I'd show.
Plumage bright and vainglorious,
attracting little birds that know not better.
Til the quick snap.
Affronted by their doting,
repulsed by their affection,
I churn.
Hazarding nothing,
expecting everything,
I draw blood for cowardice,
and call it love.

"I love you,  goodbye",
The tombstone read
in the relationship graveyard
where our love did bed. 

But, who was I?

Who was I?

What figment of me

stood in your head?

An abuser,

too cold to touch,

weighing on your heart

a piece of lead.

Never forgiven, for

never having understood

that tears were proof

of emotions it led.

Am I forgotten?

Is this the end?

"I'm Sorry, I Love you",

the card I left,

read.

You went walking out one night,
through my mind.
When I saw you would not come back
I hid you in my heart.

What does it mean to forgive?
The curtain drawn back,
reveals the barren stage.
A solitary figure stands in the center,
the lights casting his shadow high against the back wall.
Is he real, or the illusion of light?
Is he true to himself?
These questions swirl with the mist
as it traverses the splintery wood.
Below the rot eats away,
the moths choke on the curtains.
He watches himself,
not sure if he is audience or actor.
There he sits in the lone hall,
there he stands on the empty stage.
"Love"
The words echo around.
"Ah" He thinks,
"So simple, so deep."
But the word ends in silence.
An invisible orchestra begins with drums;
"Buh-BUM! Buh-BUM!"
Plaster rains, panels fall.
Having never been,
it does not matter at all.