End me with a sigh. You know me now. Give me years and I'll be a god, a bitter one. Did I do well? Though how beholden am I to have spared you the herald; ours do not have to be so bitter. For having abandoned me—for having saved me—you must be so loved to have done so. I was almost a god. You almost soughed one.
You are just as endless, as quiet as the ending.
(And we do not have to continue this if it meant to burden your lungs, if it meant to burn your nails and their earth, if it meant to plague your tongue, if it meant that your freedom becomes all but dearth.)
