the inevitability of wrinkled bedsheets

maybe it's not about saving you

i can't fix you

i won't pretend that i,

like some sort of saviour,

could change the fact that you,

just like everyone else in this world:

is damaged.

i can't comb out the bruises that blossom

inside your heart

or cure the scars in your mind.

(i can only tell you that with time,

these things will fade--

but maybe i'll fade, too)

i can't promise you that my silver words

will always be golden to you,

and that my love will carry you through the darkest hours

of our lives.

i can't tell you that 'forever' was meant for us,

or that 'infinite' applies to us.

but in the seasons we do have--

we will make the most of them.

because the length of the book or the poem or the song--

that doesn't really matter, does it?

it's the plot, the characters, the quality of writing:

and the ability to make you feel something

beautiful.