Accepting

forgiveness, accusations they form a peculiar yet similar line a circle of trust in which they create the art of love. rare and fascinating like the rain that pours at night, hitting the ground, leaving it’s raindrop behind like a memory- and the memories of you turn to raindrops, alone, cold and bitter. but somehow a warmth is created, beneath the depth of your heart, the truth of your lies, where you actually lit the flame rather than left it burning, out of sight out of mind- out of pity- that tested pity, the kind you’d say you hate yet you played the same game through the dice over and over repeating the game until you won, fair game, i lost.