879.

Or so the cynic
whispers into the long night,
no love will leave here.

878.

A game of conjoined
heartache. Twins to a captured
path to destruction.

877.

Rotting away at
individualism
so only we lives.

876.

Perhaps this is the
real reason that love is so
oft called a disease.

875.

Is this what giving
truly means? The road of slow
heart's subjugation?

874.

And on that puppet
keeps getting jerked and played for
the others' pleasures.

873.

Regurgitation,
set up like the sweetest of
tender seductions.