Hell for your heart is when a hero dies. Not expires, but disappoints. The person goes on living but the concept is no more. The power goes out in your soul forever, it seems. And then there are those moments afterward when you try and revive her, try and attribute that last broken camel-back event as a surreal dream. An old woman frantically climbing stairs, dirty rosary beads draped over one arthritic claw of a hand. Her elephant skin slung around bones, holier than the blood itself. But you know. It's just you now. Alone.
And I've watched from a distance, seen you thrive in your environment, seen you make your surroundings one with yourself. I've tried to work that into my own persona, but the variables have changed. I question myself, you are completely confident, completely happy. You aren't loud about it, your song is quiet, but saturated with relevance and art. Every fiber struck gold in your manufacture. Your golden flow just makes me emphasize my own flaws.
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