With all your lies, you're still very loveable.

I broke your back when your feet couldn't keep up with mine.

Sometimes I regret that my mouth speaks courtesy of my left aorta

and you,

you speak with a louder conscience than my begging logic seeping back into the confines of my brain fluid.

I took your spinal cord and wrapped it between my fingertips so that I could feel you feeling me.

I felt

nothing.

The cartilage tucked between the crevices of each disk 

told the same story that your face did;

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

I tried to carry you with me,

tried to gather bruises on my feet for the both of us

but at some point between tearing the cotton from my flesh

and placing it upon yours

I realized that the weight of you plus me was intolerable.

Everything you had to give remained nestled underneath your exterior,

shadowing what was left of who you used to be.

For some reason I found apologies falling from between the cracks of my lips

because of the times that you reconstructed your chest piece 

and moved along because of someone else.

The magnitude of what they had done 

reached into my backbone and tugged at its strength

and I crumbled.

But your face still read like a book that had yet to be written in.

Nothing.

Like what you had given me of yourself;

Nothing.

I am spreading the caulk onto brickwork that I forgot with my 

ability to push you away.

Because at one point you stood before me and took down my exterior

one piece of stone at a time.