How did this happen?

In reality, were we not set up for this? If we fall in love with the image of it, juxtaposing the nearest poet and wrangling dead emotions out of silent drives around town, then the fantasy must turn the stomach of most skeptics. Years ago I wrote and felt the words bleed out and it would have made sense then that, as a human being, I would run out of blood to spill… and I did. And yet, the heart pumps it, fresh every day like peaches and a tongue fabricated out candy; I was new, I had more of it, which I intended to save because the rest of my life would have lead without a drop spilled. But the knives and the papers as it takes place and hold of all that are too weak and searching for nothing, if you are fantastic, then where did that single drop come from? On my drive over I saw it, sneaking next to my arms and legs driving, then the drop became two. We walked arm in arm, trying to catch the rhythm of some distant song we could hear faintly… I was fucking bleeding. I held on, to your arm as if we were being rescued, misinterpreted what I heard as a bandage and supposed my ability as to make forever happen; I am that strong. Still, speaking to each other as victims, finding that nothing could save me, resolute to the fate of being held in contention that which lead me to you in the first place, would be the one thing that dropped me. I have a lot to say, but who really cares? The love she felt was as genuine as imported leather, carefully selected to meet his standards. In redefining love as an observation in futility, we limit its capability and undermine its powerful nature, for those in love look in the mirror and find that the reflection which stares back refuses to believe in finality. If I fell in love with the image of it, keeping it in my pocket, sweat and wrangling of pants with the physical intervention of every skin cell in awareness, would have damaged the image as it was given. Every night after, before a shower and after goodbye, the love remained intact and I knew then that it was possible… I now understand that possibility was based on very little, on what I believed to be fateful. The idea is to choose our words carefully, to take control of impetus and become friends because it would just be a shame. Until then, because it will happen as we cut our losses, I will stop the bleeding and suture for good, laying blame on the heart as it repairs itself and then… none of the miles we drove, then and now, would bear witness to all you poured into me. But… this is all a fantasy, an image of you I supposedly fabricated out of necessity because of the scores you settled; I find this fantastic. The truth is that I blame you for the best of me…

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