Is that how it's supposed to be 

Sitting in quiet because we wore out the words before we spoke

Ignoring the deafening silence that comes crashing around our ears

We become fixed on the wrong things and hope that everything will just unravel

Our love has become a knot that we wished would become tighter and tighter with time

We hope everything will unravel

We thought that was the right way

Everything had unravelled, yes

Undone by our will to have someone else try to fix this

Whatever this has become

Whatever maze our love has become

And how desperate we are to get out of it

 

The simple times we craved like the sweets children beg to have

The present has become twisted and its ropes frayed and worn

We stand back to back, soldiers fighting against the weight of the world

We stand far apart, on the opposite edges of a chasm

Fallen comrades with the wind whistling around our feet 

Our hands worn and cracked, warm and fingers intact

Our hands holding our own, a stone thrown far from all we had known

Together forever, the juvenile words choke my throat

 

The light blinded our good intentions, where our hearts were together

The importance of holding each other in the cages of our arms

We are Atlas, holding the burden of the skies upon our shoulders

Unwilling to let go because one of us would have to carry it all on our own

That's what mattered: 

me + you 

= this 

= everything mattered 

= you weren't alone, I was okay

 

Is this how it's supposed to be

Sitting in quiet because we're afraid of the knives behind first words

Ignoring the fact that you used to love the soul that inhabits this broken body

We become the strangers that only appear in the background

Our love buried itself into the past, a slumbering giant that became the elephant in the room

We hoped for - what did we ever hope for together?

I was the one who thought life into the beauty of those treasured moments

Everything had unravelled, yes

Undone by our unspoken pact to discourage its existence

Whatever this would have been for the storybooks

Whatever fragments lay in the palm of our hands 

How utterly desolate our picture-perfect delusions were