One who cries in the desert can weep for an eternity. 

Apologies for your suffering due to my brokenness.

I acknowledge these words as worthless painted pennies, but we came into one another blinded by infatuation, guided by misconceptions of love. Babies, society would label us.
Unknowing of the true meaning of the word. 

My moments of vulnerability existed as projections on a white screen in a room full of natural light,
and I despised your inability to see clearly.

I bought you an 18-karat gold, jade-studded earring in Paris—a gesture far too late. It rests in a military chest alongside the pride I extracted from myself and love letters about a dying sunflower. Letters written as if the last words I’d ever scribble, as if the first words of truth you’d translate from me. A relationship built with studs of half truths. I loved you so much more when it was over—the comfortability of possessing your loyalty made decision-making easier—for better and worse.

Believing that you’d wait for my spirit to mature, I continued to live to the monologue of my emotions, grief, and pain. I found myself in a fallacious state establishing a life prepared for the inevitable, which ironically kept us in stillwater. The pain of subconscious awareness drove me mad—”That was not me”, is what I used to say. I hope you recognize my accountability. 

To what end?

A foundation made of stained glass. 
Promises filled with helium.