The summer days had gone cold. Not from the air we breathed, but from the blood we pumped. From our wandering hearts. We had to wander to break the chains they force on us, but her heart had wandered off a seaside cliff. She would sit at the foot of the bed (it used to be called our bed… now its just the bed.) and her eyes would glaze, jaded from the guilty monsters in her head. In the twilight she sat, moonlight never glittering her bloody darkened mind. But she dared not say a word. I was to blame, to deal out the sympathy, while she wore her crown, taunting and drawing in other hindered hearts to deal out her body. The body she had chained to me. I had done no wrong and yet those eyes yearned for purer truth than they had seen. Or they had wanted to see.
From dawn to dusk, sitting. Sunlight to moonlight, glazing still in the dust and sparkling on her decaying mind. We both dared not say any words. It was past words. No godly person could sew the ripped out pieces of our once intertwined hearts back together.
At a time she smiled, but no reminiscing wrinkle surrounding her mouth could bring it back. If I had the mind to bring it back. I never wanted to see that smile again.
Subtlety can be the deadliest enemy. His ally, apathy. And that war had begun to wage, not moving with haste and violence, but wrenchingly slow rotting torture. At times our apathy was worse than any fist we could swing at each other. We just stood there frozen in this mechanically toxic stare into one another's truths.
"Grace." She would whisper avoiding my deadly eyes and truth.
I know what road her and her broken crown had wandered down.
And in this twilight how dare she speak of grace.
