There were times when she would argue over,
Just about everything and any little thing.She metamorphosed into something impulsive,
Something ugly, something forceful and relentless,
Over her own expectations of his sentiments,
Which had been swiftly placed in her grasp,
And then snatched back over and over,
Until she could no longer be sure,
That her small hands could hold on to them any longer.It was then she would withdraw,
Shrink back into the remoteness of her mistrust:
Fear was a most formidable opponent,
And paranoia accompanied her constantly.Yet, at other times, she would become,
Completely consumed by such a great sadness,
In her heart that words became infrequent and meager.She struggled for some sort of stipulation,
For his promises seemed empty and flawed.Hiding in her sanctuary of desolate ruin,
Trying to flee from the isolation that is,
Omnipresent in the silence that echoes,
In the very corners of her mind.Any understanding of reason, of logic,
Of interpretation for her solitude,
Her constant trying for favor,
Were futile and splendid in all its glory.It would have been marvelous if he had returned,
A gentle tenderness and care while delivering her,
From the imputations she had laid upon herself.However, the truth was that she was lost.She had lost herself a long time ago,
Defeated by the broken-ness that exhausted her spirit.
Melancholy had allowed her to release him,
To the destiny of his path,
As she locked herself away to be forgotten.It was not that she was incompetent,
Or that she was lacking any ability,
But that she had given up her tenacity,
For a life eroded by failures,
She could not surpass.
