Seconds drain too quickly through minutes, straight into hours and back into a single long sentence. One which you do not seem inclined to finish anytime soon. If you want to tell me that you love me, do so now in a hundred lovely actions.

Or just one.

Too much has been said too late...and so much of it behind closed doors. So let us give over speaking, you and I, to those who can afford such overpriced lies. And let us write a new language.

Or not.

Let us go on fighting, but not each other. Not one blow more. You did not know it would end in pieces, but you should have. Every hit hits home and we all live here. And with each small victory, our foundations suffer. We wake and walk each day with lacerations and limps we cannot explain. Truth is a knife edge.

Yours and mine.

There is nothing that cannot be cut; but it never runs you through. We can hold onto our shards or we can build. Neither of us have enough Truth to stand on, just enough to draw blood; but that's ok. We would rather have our altars fallen anyway.

But still...

Sometimes it is just fine to go looking for a fight. "Know your enemy," they say. They understand nothing of Calvary love. And I doubt either of us know much more; or else, we might know our enemy and know where to draw battle lines. And where to look for our fight.