Who really loves us, but the ones that are supposed to? The mother, the father, the family, the friends; who are supposed to feel all the love in the world for us, for no other reason than our combined lines of blood and tears. If not them, then who will love us?

Where is perfection if not within our own love’s eyes? Is there anything else that is worth having than to feel that perfection for only the briefest of moments that consumes us and enables our being? What else is left for the having?

I remember love. For nothing but who and what I am. Where is this lost savior that tinges at my heart, playing it like a fine tuned harp of distant fates. I am lost in a sea of static and romance long faded, ever tangled in the web of regret.

I remember the kisses.

Who will save me?

Who will save me from myself?

I am drowning.

Nicholas has left the 3s