"A man of words - he makes up in diction what he lacks in dick"

I'm tired of wordsmiths. Exhausted by them. And frankly, I have no business speaking in the plural here. I am tired of one particular wordsmith. Someone whose words weave an imagined sable blanket, in which he intends to wrap me, under the guise of keeping me warm and safe. I'm really not at all certain if smothering me is an intended or unintended by-product.

One last chance on top of another, another, and yet another, he offers me.

But who is in the position to offer anything here?

Really.

I left last July. I. Left. And while, in the interest of being open --- because I hate the thought that two people who have shared so much together should play the farce of acting strangers --- we have spoken since, and I may even have entertained a fleeting thought of reconciliation; never once have I gone back, as much as the glimmering web of words in the sunlight might engage my imagination.

Every sentence is a dagger, posing as an innocuous blade of grass in a suspiciously well manicured lawn. Conditional statements, growing from the soil and soul of a supposedly unconditional and undying love.

Well, that's a pretty picture, but it's not how love works. Love does not need stipulations. They are contrary to its very nature, and, ultimately, will kill it.

Enough of the "ifs" and "whens."

Well, not quite enough, I have one, too.

Take your lead-laden chest --- if and when you perhaps fill it with a heart, you will indeed be fit to find another, as you have assured (or threatened) me many a time that you will.

The threats ring as hollow as the words.