This all just stops. You know that, of course, but do you really truly know that?
I ache, perpetually, at the realization.
You are my container of happiness, my vessel, my iron safe. How could I ever handle more? I fear for the power of whatever could be loved more by me, even if it is our zenith, our culmination of desire and passion and wanting and patience. In truth, I don’t need more keeping me here, begging me to stay, and I fear I would love such a creation so much it would gut me.
And this world is not wanting for more. And it has grown weary of sacrifice, and pain and brutality masquerading as love.
I ache, perpetually, but I’ve kept it contained. It is only a yearning for permanence. This all just stops. You know that, of course, but do you really know that? No matter what’s left behind of us.
My body aches perpetually, at the realization.