I would never guess you could bleed, had I not seen the wound myself.
What plagues you, silly boy? Why do you cry?
Another woman, not long ago hurt you. The cut is still deep and your heart still aches.
The selfish being I am does not want to even care… my pain reverberates through my spine constantly, while I know that you will walk again in the coming of mornings.
And yet so elated you are, and I never knew that within that chest was a beating heart.
I tend to assume that I am the only fragile being on this planet, while I am surrounded by knights in rusted, solid armor.
But here you are, so pained, and I treat you as another suspect who will wield his blades against me.
I’ve lashed out many times, and you simply stare back with those blank eyes.
I am hurt because you don’t care.
You don’t care because you are hurt.
So why do I stay, and why do you? Helpless wounded animals are; they thrive off of the aspect of survival. I suppose when one’s heart stops beating, the other will devour it to remain strong.
Watching those eyes, like I love to, you don’t seem to care. You’ve already died, so you say.
That’s interesting, don’t you think?
Two ghosts between four walls.
And then we drift away to haunt the city streets, until we meet again.