Yet again I have fallen into
The costumed depiction my mind created
To disguise the disfigured truth of my intentions. 

We can't be the same.  

We are sacrificial shards of glass shed from broken souls
Who wander wounded through the world of the emotionless
And wish for repair at the risk of recognition.

Despair.
Was what I saw inside of you even real?
And what of me –

 And that shiny shimmer of intrigue
You found at the bottom of the wreckage that defined me?

Was that something real?
Or just another abstraction my heart will hold
Sacred in the depths that another may never see –

 But me – in memory.