The pavement against your knees,
the shaking of my fist
the terrible brewing of emotions
in
my
veins,

When I had said
that I don’t make promises,
I had been writing fate.

When I had said
that the bruises we wear
are our suit & tie,
I had been the finest tailor
sewing sutures into our skin.

When I had said
that I was obsessed,
I had been the most insane
man
in that asylum.

You are crying,
and my knuckles sting.
Though it will not scar,
it will leave a memory.

(Perhaps that is worse.)