Choices

Are these words only empty skins discarded by the thoughts that once wore them? Life in its persistence negotiating truth with its victims.

What was held, was I not held by? Merely clutching the air as I imagined that flight.

Coutning off. Counting down. Counting on. Numbers too sparse. Bottles growing heavier the more I take from them.

We are not what we give to. Nor what we take from. Only what we are left with after those callous arbitrations are done.

The morning in her eyes as we are loosed from sleep. The color of her lips as those dreams escape her pillow and her head is gently lifted.

Waking soft to hours dense. Touching thick with fingers lost in the prospect of skin too intense. That every feeling is echoed from the beginning of our lives to its furtherst edge.

I never wanted to live, but you thrust it upon me. I didn't want to know how it felt, but you gave me no choice.

And that is how you left me.