You and I are so similar, broken, marred with regrets of things that happened, and longings for things that never would be—we are both more words and fewer deeds, but it was never your fault; I did this to the both of us.

You are, the lava, a never-ending flow from the heart of the universe itself, creeping, burning, brighter than the brightest of suns, the sweet-child of One, One who forsook us all, and made you the lord in His stead.

I named you, a year, a number, and cursed you, called you names that you did not deserve, yet you remained, you always do. You took all my grief, all of it; you took all my losses, all of them; you took all my weakness, in my bones, heart, and soul, from the very core, and you made it all your own. I am left empty now, a casket without brine, that is all there was, and I loathed you for taking it away.

You are leaving now, I think you are, but you never do, and I feel strange, for I have known you at your worst, at my worst, and I have seen the true ‘You’, the true ‘I’, and I don’t hate you now, instead, I, an empty casket, feel sorry for you, the sweet child of the abyss, now tormented with my eternal misery. I wish you human mortality; only that can cure your grief.