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these walls were not painted with your face nor have your trembling hands or fingers traced the cracks, that over time, led you here where, out broken windows, you sang in the wind- like the willows and the bluebells. with a clenched soul, I watch you suffer- pieces of your wars burn like ash between my hands and I'm not scared- for it is here, in this corridor, that I love you. though dark rooms and broken candlesticks fill our lives, we'll rise in the morning with laughter, our half-hour love, and a whiskey bottle full of everything that makes me want to be with you.