Out from my palms my blood flowed, but it was without pain I had let the wound open for you; it was after all straight and genuinely from the heart.
This was the heart that beat quietly in pursuit of you, in the rhythm fulfilled by the existence of you. And so the constant flow dripped off my fingertips to give and give and give.
I lived this far with the knowledge that you would be mine. Somehow and someday. And to do so I have navigated these uncharted paths by living as good a person I could have tried to be, all things considered, because somehow, someday I had to be worthy of my desires.
My desire was you, and to love you the way ki have alwaysmdone, before I even knew you and before we had ever met. Constantly and unconditionally.
My belief in you existing solely for me has been tried and tested in more ways than even you could know. Even in the knowledge that everything was shared as we became one, I shrugged off the layers of scar tissue and scabs to better embrace you and be stronger for you. And though I has hurt to attempt to remove, these same scars were blessed with my gratitude if only because my strong belief that they had to exist as a test of fire in order to endure and experience the obtainment of you.
My belief is that you are for me and I am for you. But stronger still is that you be eased of all pains and burdens, and at peace of mind; with or without me. Because, this my love, is without condition.
But you don't want my beliefs until they safeguard yours.
If i have asked of you to alter or amend, this too is in belief that you would be better off. Health and emotion so intertwined they have fed off each other, eating and eating until nothing was left except the raw, rotting and bleeding. To prevent and heal, I have asked of you may things which my prayers alone have no been enough to assuage. And my belief in you recognizing the goodness of my requests for the sake of our love had to withstand the powerful resistance to change.
My heart has waited, in all the heartbeats it had lost in waiting, and with each beat sighed the unwavering prayer that was you. Then to spend each moment in fervent hope that each moment of yours was better. To give each waking moment to praying for your state if being, instead of mine.
How is it that this blood, pouring steadfastly from my palms has started to turn from red to black? That this snow upon which I have tread so as not to stain it from its purity now betrays my footsteps, seeping cold and unmercifully into my skin, burning my beliefs with icy cold acidity? Why now, the fulfillment of loving you comes at the precipice of your rejecting the very same power which brought me to you?
Perhaps from henceforth I will not pray that your every moment is fulfilled to your own wishes, perhaps now I will not pray that you hardships ease and that the sun will shine upon you in you on darkness or for the things you yourself want for you. I will pray that you learn to believe in your own stead and believe with as much as I did in you, that you learn to believe in yourself without me so that you own prayers will come true with the same faith we had in mine. Instead of the amount of energy I have spent in your smaller things coming true, I will pray that you own come true, so that you will no longer need mine, nor me.
The blood will continue to flow. Black or red. It will not abate, nor is it possible that I can stop it. It flowing for you has become the definition of my being, so much that to press down on the wound, to stitch in up, will sooner choke me as if my breath itself has stopped. But thus, my beliefs, they have crippled. I continue to walk despite the frostbitten soles, but only so in a direction far away from where I had left my heart.