a tale as old as time.
love is premeditated first, by history for years lovers have sat in the pristineness of the grief following a fight and imagined. the heart drags to the feet with a painful force the mouths curl into cruel words but limbs and heart are locked in passionate disbelief; now does his mouth have a distaste for me? it seems impossible yet he could be spewing arguments of hate for me too. trapped by contradictions, lovers quarrel eternally each convinced by their historically exceptional agony. imprints of their dissent are now feathers of fables falling at leisure. i say pitiful phrases to myself when we fight, and then it befalls me love is premeditated by me too. always slightly hopeful that a voice will respond, i expect whispers of dejection to be sliced. but response comes in a weep so heavy it fills my lungs with emptiness i can only imagine is borrowed, from tired nights of the past. a cloud of tears around my ears dripping through my hair you drenched me in despondence when