Accepting
forgiveness,
accusations
they form a peculiar yet similar line
a circle of trust
in which they create the art of love.
rare and fascinating
like the rain that pours at night, hitting the ground, leaving it’s raindrop behind
like a memory-
and the memories of you turn to raindrops,
alone, cold and bitter.
but somehow a warmth is created,
beneath the depth of your heart,
the truth of your lies,
where you actually lit the flame
rather than left it burning, out of sight
out of mind-
out of pity-
that tested pity,
the kind you’d say you hate
yet you played the same game
through the dice over and over
repeating the game
until you won,
fair game,
i lost.
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