In truth, it starts to ache at times,
the wear and tear of all these years,
stripped and laid bare eventually.
Anchored first by steady hands, rough
sand smoothed into blinding gems
and stems that flowered beautifully.

Was it then we learned to lie?
Shiny words of trust and submission
as we buried the truth of our contradictions.
Perhaps we were shaken right from the start,
balanced thin on hoping hearts, frozen
in fear of mistakes and false starts.

Maybe we grew complacent, let our words
become draft thoughts and phrases
flung at each other in place of conversation.
Maybe you were too demanding, and in turn
I became too meek, lost in misunderstanding
of  love languages we never learned to speak.

We have become zombies robbed of sense,
struggling to condense heartache into hope as we
choke on the stench of mistake and offence.
Ready to be skin and bone just so we won’t be
alone, but now we’re out of tricks to play,
and scents to mask the old decay.

Tell me, is there freedom here?
Some worth in fighting all these years?
Let us journey to the start and hammer out
the winding parts—the strange perfume,
our crooked hearts. I’m sure that in this history
we’ll find words for our eulogy.