the end, begins.

“Happy birthday”

“Thanks.”

Wish as hollow as the receipt of wish.

And both equally pregnant with long fermented venom.

Uttered with clenched teeth.

Responded to with a smile sketched in the red and red of hate and anger.

This is the aftermath of romance.

Of love that was too strong to be forgotten but not strong enough to bear the baptism of contradiction.

This is Pompeii after Vesuvius has purged its fiery wrath.

This is the Chernobyl of toxic dreams.

This is the ashen remains of hearts that burnt down in their own passion.

This is the surrender of two spirits torn up by turmoil and circumstance.

Lie to me, she said… tell me you’re perfect. This is what I want to know.

I’ll never lie to you, he said. I’m not perfect, and I want you to know this.

And so she never believed him, and he never lied, and in the end, the both came to believe in one truth. That their time had run out. That exacerbated pain at each other’s unwillingness to relent in the fervor of their own love has led them to the edge of the cliff which feelings must now jump off.

And claim on the way down the eternal rest of martyrs who survive beyond breath and reason; beyond life and death; beyond beginnings and endings.