You were lighting matches at the end of the tunnel

While I stood, quietly too, aflame.

Forever cowardly; forever lonely.

It’s how it goes:

We trade our scars in the dark

between a whisper

that I can not dance with you if my demons can not with yours.

We flee from oaths of bittersweet salvation,

with the imprints of your touch to bloom crevices between bone.

And when this cotton heart swells with boysenberry bruises,

We realize in these violent delights,
how far; how swift we had fallen.
 
It’s how it goes.
It’s how this story always goes.
We burned too bright; we burned too fast

And someone had to leave first.
 
There is no other retelling of this story.
 
And it’s probably better, in the end, if I didn’t know,

When the aftertaste of bliss is still in my mouth.