If we are to judge of love by its consequences, it more nearly resembles hatred than friendship. – Francois De La Rochefoucauld
And so what was love then, I mean what did it mean to her? Darkness was encroaching around her as the room began to get smaller and smaller. Wind beat the window and she feared it may crack or even shatter. Blue and black and red all over. Her heart beating willingly there upon her sleeve; bleeding from the wounds inflicted by him and by others. Stitched up and barbed wired. Deep dark eyes. Flaming anger. Fearing she would leave him; fearing he wouldn’t get what he came here for he told her. Told her that he loved her that today and not tomorrow is the time. This is love.
“Love you, I do. You know me, unlike any other.”
Love? To pity with it. Death is love. Death is what she smells as he lingers there before her. He is rotting and she knows it. Today wasn’t the last time that needle punctured his vein and she feels this surge of pity towards him; a feeling she mistook as love and now, now she knows love isn’t but a piece of it. Love and lies and deceit equating to pitiful empty nothings. Nothings that are falling from the ceiling and they are sprinkled on the spotless white comforter and she spies the scar. How come he doesn’t turn, how come it all seems to stay the same? Hate surging with an instant of fated fates and she hates him. Life is not meant to be lived like this. To fear his death. To fear now, her own death.
“Love me, you do not. You knew me best once, now I feel you know me not at all.”
Moments and moments upon endless moments. She whispers and their voices mingle together. He has his reasoning and he whispers them sweetly and she wants to believe him. But this isn’t love. The world falls out from beneath her and, the moments where choices cannot yet be reconciled, she fights to hold on. And her breath, it has left her. She can’t and she won’t, you know? How can he make this better? He did this to her and now she weeps there within the bathroom stall. Her fate, she doesn’t even know at all. The balance, the balances, is her fate balanced? Right now this love has turned from crimson red to pewter black.
“To you I offer nothing. To you I offer no explanation.”
“Then you loved me never…”
