I don't see any end to this unexcited down pour of your so called tears of misery. For if I remember correctly you spoke of change. Yet here you are, hanging on the tail of my coat. Begging me to comfort your tender soul.
Knowing well of what my heart feels of you. What sickly ego you must bear, willing to reach to me in your time of need. Though this be a familiar need, with a familiar problem. A problem I cannot console even if you handed me the key.
No, I do not wish to ignore you, but it must be done. For your soul is not the only soul between us. Mine stretches with both arms. Expanding in the desire to be a part of yours. But I have grown to know this is a fools errand. It cannot be done, for your soul reaches to no one.
I now hear the fiddle that plays from the roof of your heart, and I hear the rhythm of the devil flows from it. I don't wish to condemn you to your misery, but it seems you are not exhausted of it. I fear it has become a relig…