Everything breaks to the false grip
that holds it for a deeper sense
of love.
All that binds is meant to kill.
I have died a meaningless death to
the slight of your hands.
Killed by the mental grasp of
the image you protect.
I was more than you could ever
hope to own.
Yet I am nothing now...and still you
wish to feel me burn.
So I will be smoke to the fire that
burns to your touch.
You can have my ashes strewn to the
winds of our bitter discontent.
I will find my answers in the
breeze.
As you will find yours...in the empty
hands I leave behind.
Love,
Eric
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