I watched the passion fall, held the dying faith for too long, got drunk with your doubts, and danced on the parody of our songs.

I believed we stood on the same side, but our story always had the two different roads, doesn't matter who walked to the flip side? The distance introduced was same with each direction, and I apologize for the uncertainties I allowed to grow.

Just like you I carry the rattling pieces in a sack, you carry mine just like yours never slipped through my hand, I wish if I could just pull you back, but the dunes in between were of broken trust and not just sand.

You knew I was a recluse since the very inception, and I know you tried to the extent of that lovely rebel in you, I apologize for I was immune to your interventions, and though I was always a distant one but never untrue.

So I write this with the scarlet ink, dripping through the scars of our desiccating glory, the same with which I helped you write your doubts, and with which we once together wrote our story.