A Ballade of Us

If I wrote a book about the love you took, would you then realize the pain it each word? Every moment would then be easily depicted. Every instance where you made me feel whole again would then become tangible. The love expressed in the beginning would be ideal. Would the words I write bring you to expense the same joy I felt? The bulk of us which made up the middle would read of longing, separation and enduring. Could you sense the wanting? Desperation, the sheer desire to experience unity. If I wrote an ending to us, could your eyes even bare to read it. Your heart would be awakened to the strife you intentionally inflicted. My heart would be bare, exposed on paper and the pain it carried would be noted, Due to you. It can not be unfelt. You can not will the ways of the broken hearted. If I wrote a book, it would be of loss. The tale of a tragically broken individual.