The frosted grass crumbled under his boots
the shadow of the stones fading
But still they lingered as he sat,
his hands resting on the old black typewriter
How was he supposed to begin?
How was he supposed to choose the words,
when all he had left to give was words?
How could he let them bleed out of his hands,
when his heart had already frozen, when they
were all that he could live with?
He sighed, black coffee eyes dead and grieving,
the kind with burial veils and a sarcophagus
Then he wrote one word
WHY?
His chains tightened, a boa constrictor on his lungs
HOW?
Could he bear it? Did he even have enough words,
to begin to tell a love story
no one had ever heard before?
Did he have the courage to make them realize
this was no fairytale, no tragic romance
but nothing less than his own life,
his own bleeding, broken, bruised heart?
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