I won’t delve into any cliché
of offering my heart
or my soul, that blackened tripe,
or my bones, which glow so sickly white,
As a gesture of my love.
No, I don’t like to promise
what I can’t keep,
I can’t give you the world,
Not a single street,
No diamonds or pearls,
Not that you seek
such materials anyway.
I would like to tell you
that I was once mine,
Before you, I ruled over this body
and mind, it was lonely, cynical
and often despised,
Stuck in a spiral of
self-indulged lies,
A madman in the making.
I would like to tell you
that now I’m shared,
Split down the middle
from toe to hair,
I am still mine because you’re there,
Fixing and tweaking with loving repair,
Dragging me kicking
from the hate and despair
I’d grown quite fond of,
In the end;
What’s mine is yours,
for you are why,
I’m even there to lend.

Words by Fred Ostrovskis

Photo by Sam Dickinson