Life is the tragedy of living,
and then dying
anyway.
Love is the tragedy of trying
for nothing.
He was the tragedy of everything,
every word,
every breath.
He was the natural disaster
that took me.
His words were the tidal waves,
and I drowned every time.
He always knew just what to say to break me.
His cuts were like broken glass,
and they reflected mine.
We were bleeders.
Open-heart feelers.
We were so in love with ourselves and our own misery,
that we wore our hearts too brightly on our sleeves.
And yet somehow, someway,
we were the tragedy
of apathy.