Monday 6/05/2006 11:52:00 PM

The cut scraps of paper lay upon the floor. Thoughts in coma. Abducted from helpless hearts. Strapped down. Tied to their bed. In this asylum we sometimes refer to as moving on.

Taking their words not as wholes, but one syllable at a time. In doses. The rise of the wave. The peak. And the break as it bites down on the sand. Devouring every footprint we made as we walked together there.

I felt him hurting again, but then I always have. I wanted to be the bandage. The antiseptic. But he'd always refuse.

The more things broke the less he was willing to let anyone help him.

Maybe we're alike. Same paper. Same pen. Different drawings. And I was right from the beginning.

Or maybe we're completely different. Different colors. Different inks. Same sketches. And I was wrong. As wrong as he was when.

He let himself become someone he couldn't respect.

I can't grow a rose, but I can pick one. It's not so difficult to hold it and still avoid the thorns.

And even if it should prick me, I'm grateful for anything that grows in this saline garden.


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