Everything We Had.
Everything We Had
I am...deeply sorry, my dear. Adalea, I loved you, and I'm so sorry for what has happened. I am sorry, also, for following you. For tracking you, in a sense. But I couldn't let you go...after that night.
That night.
The wretched night,
I can't tell you how sorry I am for it.
Please, dry your eyes.
And won't you please forgive me?
We were in love...we spent our summers walking deserted beaches, our autums strolling leaf-laces paths through parks and along the railroad tracks ourside the place you dwelled. You lived outside; you dwelled in that apartment. I remember those days so clearly. Where you and I traveled the streets without a care, because we owned those city streets; that unforgiving city. We laughed, we carried on, we were stared at throughout our adventures, us envied Weekend Warriors, and I adored you every minute of our time. We spent our days outside; but our evenings were almost always spent celebrating the great indoors.
Smile slides off your face.
I told you I was sorry.
The corner bar you kidded me about; you said that you were my Sheena; and I replied, saying how you were not a parasite. And you laughed, dashing into the bar. It was the place where we met, that corner bar, and you dragged me there so often. Where you told me your name was Abbie Normal, and I laughed when I told you plainly that I was William Beckett. You smiled, and I sat with you, until your senses faded. Your inner battle, the spell of sorrow that he has cast over your heart, never meant to go away, you felt had one anticdote; alchohol.
I told you to dry those eyes.
I told you I was sorry.
Your father, the sourcerer of dispair, the wizard of depression, had killed your soul. He made you hurt inside, and I tried to help you through those tough times. The times you cried. You told me that when we first met; when you were drunk, and I carried you home. The rotine had been similare every night after that, but we became closer, and I forced myself to stay sobber for you. Because I loved you, Adalea. More then anything.
Stop it.
Stop crying.
You didn't need to see me today.
It was on that night...he came to visit you again...he beat you nearly to death, I believe...and I felt horrible. But you chased me away, because you told me he beat you because of me; because I was the only person you'd grown close to. You chased me away, and it broke my heart. Adalea...I am so sorry for that.
I'm sorry for running out of the bar.
I'm sorry for running in the street, down the block, to the shoreline.
I'm sorry for collapsing on the ground.
I'm sorry for not moving out of the way in time.
Stop it.
Stop those tears.
Don't look at that damned rock.
Stop reading my name, the date of my birth and death.
Stop reading.
Stop crying.
Go walk the beach.
Go walk the city streets.
Adalea, please.
I'm always with you.
Stop bringing me back to myself.
Stop taking me back to that bar.
And make me a Weekend Warrior again.
That night.
The wretched night,
I can't tell you how sorry I am for it.
Please, dry your eyes.
And won't you please forgive me?
We were in love...we spent our summers walking deserted beaches, our autums strolling leaf-laces paths through parks and along the railroad tracks ourside the place you dwelled. You lived outside; you dwelled in that apartment. I remember those days so clearly. Where you and I traveled the streets without a care, because we owned those city streets; that unforgiving city. We laughed, we carried on, we were stared at throughout our adventures, us envied Weekend Warriors, and I adored you every minute of our time. We spent our days outside; but our evenings were almost always spent celebrating the great indoors.
Smile slides off your face.
I told you I was sorry.
The corner bar you kidded me about; you said that you were my Sheena; and I replied, saying how you were not a parasite. And you laughed, dashing into the bar. It was the place where we met, that corner bar, and you dragged me there so often. Where you told me your name was Abbie Normal, and I laughed when I told you plainly that I was William Beckett. You smiled, and I sat with you, until your senses faded. Your inner battle, the spell of sorrow that he has cast over your heart, never meant to go away, you felt had one anticdote; alchohol.
I told you to dry those eyes.
I told you I was sorry.
Your father, the sourcerer of dispair, the wizard of depression, had killed your soul. He made you hurt inside, and I tried to help you through those tough times. The times you cried. You told me that when we first met; when you were drunk, and I carried you home. The rotine had been similare every night after that, but we became closer, and I forced myself to stay sobber for you. Because I loved you, Adalea. More then anything.
Stop it.
Stop crying.
You didn't need to see me today.
It was on that night...he came to visit you again...he beat you nearly to death, I believe...and I felt horrible. But you chased me away, because you told me he beat you because of me; because I was the only person you'd grown close to. You chased me away, and it broke my heart. Adalea...I am so sorry for that.
I'm sorry for running out of the bar.
I'm sorry for running in the street, down the block, to the shoreline.
I'm sorry for collapsing on the ground.
I'm sorry for not moving out of the way in time.
Stop it.
Stop those tears.
Don't look at that damned rock.
Stop reading my name, the date of my birth and death.
Stop reading.
Stop crying.
Go walk the beach.
Go walk the city streets.
Adalea, please.
I'm always with you.
Stop bringing me back to myself.
Stop taking me back to that bar.
And make me a Weekend Warrior again.