A Saltwoven

If love was a war , then why did we dance, on a battlefield dressed as second chance? Was it my hand that pulled you too near, or yours that let go, despite my fear? Did you feel alive as I fell apart, as you sharpened your words and aimed straight at my heart? Or were you already gone, a shadow, a ghost, feeding on the love I offered the most? Did you taste my tears like the victory's wine, or did their salt remind you that this heart was mine? Did you feel my pulse beneath your kiss, or were you counting the seconds to this abyss? If love was a war , then why did you lie, holding my hand as you watched me die? Was it my fault for clinging too tight, or yours for vanishing into the darkest of night? When you kissed my scars, did you taste their depth, or did you flinch at the truth my silence kept? Were you holding me close to feel less alone, or rehearsing your steps to leave me undone? Do you hear my voice when the night turns still, or does the quiet soothe wher...

  What do you call the moment the thread gives way? A failure of force, or freedom from fray?   Does it mourn its severance, or was it waiting to flee,   a quiet rebellion against what could never be free?   And when it snaps, does it echo in time ,   or disappear like a crime buried deep in the grime?    When the earth splits, is it rage or release,   a violent quake or a prayer for peace?   Do the mountains weep as they crumble to sand,   or do they dream of being held in the sea’s hand?   Is breaking destruction , or is it rebirth ,   a grave for the old, or the scream of new earth?    Does the flame curse the wick for burning away,   or does it embrace the ash, unafraid of decay?    When the fire consumes, is it greed or grace,   a devouring force or a cleansing space?   Does it die with regret for the warmth it gave,...