Letting go would be easy after so many failed trips to the top. Letting go would release and free you at last. But still, you hold on.
A unicorn’s blood, keeps weak men alive. And you, my love, were barely breathing.
You remember every kiss, conversation, touch, laugh. You allow yourself to believe that what you feel and what they feel is the same. But it never is.
That first sip, slow and labored, eyes opening ever so slightly. And you begin again.
“You look fine,” you say. You leave and I smile. I do look fine. But not in the way you think. Not in the way you choose to paint me.