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When my tears brought you to me,
what horizon would they take me to?
Would they show me the peace I craved,
a love I have yet to give,
or the salvation I never tasted?

My love, you are never a mask
I wear to embrace the cruel morning.
You are not my treasure, my heart,
or my lifeline in the storm.
The truth?
You are my silence, my destruction,
my doom—in all manner of speaking.

When my heart told me
I was made for the sparkle in your eye,
or the webs of truth in your vision
for a future that should not be possible, I wondered
—which hell would those depths take me?
Would they shove me into a lake of fire,
scalding and melting all I ever knew,
or would they spare me death on a calvary
by feeding me the venom and shame of the times?

My love, you should not be on the road to havoc
nor us on the path to ruin.
You are not my time, my destiny,
or my oath to keep
until we crash, ignite, or crumble
to the pieces of who we once were.
You are not my home, my refuge
on the battlefield for my dreams,
or a mercy shown by those who deceive us.
The truth, love?
You are a light I could not reach,
a wave I could not sail, and
a memory I could not fathom.

So when my body brought me
To meet you on the middle of the empty field,
know that you are not my eyes to see in the dark.
You are the sun to douse the reaches of shadows.
You are not my end nor my beginning.
You are what you are, love;
you are my halfway journey.

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