Or rather was he the writing or I the writer, was I written or did I make myself up as he went along? Was the fabrication of this a way to get to you or push you away? Were the nights where I held you out of the storm ever real or did he stop believing? No story is ever told the same way twice. I have never been sane, I have never been the same, he was never real, you fell apart before my eyes and I did nothing. He wept and tried to gather up all these pieces and was left fractured himself. I wrote it all such a very long time ago, you have since grown tired. He cannot live there anymore but cannot leave either. She danced through the fire and I applauded from the curb. He calculated every move until I couldn’t breathe. And the music plays off key and he stumbles in and out of line of sight, in and out of headlights so dim that the road turned into autumn. the writing believes and the writing tears and the writing weeps into coarse lids crowned with eyelashed thorns.