with the only apathy I could feign.

  You and I:

     makeshift souls of birdsong,
     because we’d only word-etched ribs
     and hearts incompatible with stillness.

     We’d breathe trust in parallel irises,
     just to see hope fall before ruin;
     darkness was learned better swords than opponents,
     and they stabbed as swift as sure.

    I and You:

     regretting in weeping,
     for love never learned to be held—
     for souls always seemed to be cracked
     by each stretching tongue of longing.

     Perhaps love is lost before it is found,
     and perhaps love stays lost to hearts
     gifted without the affinity for light;

     we were matches made in heaven,
     of hell’s most cruelest design…

     You and I, and I and you,
     forever longing to be whole.