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By the time I had met you, I had relinquished my everything — my body, my mind, my voice. Even my sins — my pride, my vanity, my brutality — I had given up them all.
By the time I had met you, all I could have given you is my love. It was a pathetic, feeble sort of love. There was no passion — for I have given it up. There was no sense of possession — for I have given it up. There was no intense carnal desire — for I have given it up. This love which I gave you was not the kind that would burn the whole world down solely for your happiness. She was not the type of love that would thwart everything that dared to stand between you and herself. She was not the sort of love that would destroy everything you hold dear, so that she would be the only thing you shall have left. She was so feeble and pathetic that she was not even the kind of love that would guarantee your survival; not even, in hindsight, the kind that would lay down her life in exchange for yours.
She was, however, the kind of love that would bury her hands in your dazzling orange hair to pick lice. She was the kind of love to eagerly listen to your countless, disconnected anecdotes about things she couldn’t even begin to comprehend. She was the kind of love to patiently stroke the sole of your foot in those sleepless nights of yours. She was the type of love that squeezed your frail, limp hand during your frightening fevers. She was the kind of love that would take the time to re-tie the back of your sun-stained apron in the middle of her busy workday. She was the type of love to allow your mud-covered, blood-covered body to press against hers, as bare as yours and twice as filthy, just to please you.
Yet, bereft of even a tongue to properly lick your wounds, that was all she could ever do.
She was just that weak, pathetic, feeble love.
She was me: all of me; all I can give.
Such so-called feeble love shall forever rest on the top of my head, on the flaming red hair which you so dearly loved, always just a bit tight, just a bit painful. Such pathetic love strangles my bare heart — and it bleeds; the blood of which shall forever choke my shallow throat, rendering me muted, for words now fall to no one's ears at all — my stories meant only for a corpse. Such weak love carved gaping wounds in your shape on the sole of my foot and in-between my fingers when she left; thus my feet shall forever ache, until they reach you; thus my fingers shall forever burn, until they touch you.
There are days when I am paralysed from head to toe, do know it’s your feeble love tying me down. There are days when the hollow you left weighs far heavier than the body it was left on, do know it’s where your feeble love should have rested.