If two is better than one
Then why is she standing in a barren desolate land
With shivering hands
Picking up the broken mosaic pieces
That he once put together
They slice her hands
And fall back unto the freshly laid snow
As blood taints its purity
She reaches one more time
Like a babe reaching for a jar
So close to grasp
But instead her fingertips graze it
Slicing her hands once more as the pieces are forced further away
She begins a descension
Imagining his gaze of autumn
The deep hickory of his eyes
Embedded into her mind forever
Your the loss of my life
