You knew that love would burn, yet you threw your hand in anyway, to feel the sting of the fire, to experience the heat of desire.
For years, my heart belonged to no other; with no replacement in your stead, nor imitation to uncover.
Yet once the passion – too hot for your hand did burn – forced you to withdraw your promise of commitment, it extinguished our union forlorn.
And in abandoning our bond, you fled with another, with a heart unlike yours; our flame did it smother.
Wasn’t that the point – as sharp and as painful as it was – to extinguish our love, as fear often does?
Was it the beating of my heart that bruised you this way? What could I have done to drive you away?
But there you left me, naked and prone, stripped of my pride; stripped to the bone.
Our chain now broken, the link disconnected; severed and lifeless, limp and rejected.
But it is not death that we fear, for the thrill of it excites us. It is the silence that kills when left to my devices.
And now, here I lie, bare, barren and neglected; tortured in my sleep, exposed and unprotected.
To die on my own, alone and unwanted; my mind and my heart ablaze; my spirit so haunted.
– David Allen