Your anguish needed a life To inhabit so it chose mine Even if mine was as hollow a shell.

It is this I wear around my head, A crimson bandana, as I bend over paper To write you a letter.

I write, “The tyranny of time Was not fate but the choices we Did and did not make.

When neither passion nor the feebler Pretense of loyalty remained, Prisoners of love made good their escape.

No numbers to account for questions Or words to track pain’s routes. This is the situation, honestly,

Your anguish needed a life larger Than yours, so it chose mine, Till it became all mine.”