There is a war, a bloody battle,
between the heaviness of my guilty conscience,
and the lightness of my heart.
Each day more people are injured,
as we shield them from the painful truth.

You offered me your hand,
a peace treaty of sorts,
an illegal compromise
and I accepted without a second thought.

My hand trembled slightly,
for fear or exhilaration, I am still unsure.
But you were a safe zone,
an escape I so desperately desired.

For some reason the explosions you set off within me
don't send me running,
they elicit a courageous fire,
and I'm dying to burn.

As you drew away, your absence ached,
like a bloody wound within me,
a blinding pain that caused me to cry out,
begging for you to return, breaking when you did.

I tried to distract myself,
divert my eyes from the wonder within yours,
but all I wanted was to stare,
at a sight capable of diluting the pain of war,
at a face worth fighting for.

And your hand slid across mine,
shivering, as our fingers intertwined,
clinging desperately to the only thing that felt right,
and it finally seemed like we could win -
but wars are never victimless.

The guilt would creep back in,
blood red and stained gray,
until you'd shift your hand,
and everything erupted.
I could no longer escape.

Every moment since has felt empty.
Without you, the world is less complete.
But the war rages on, reeking tragedy for all.
I'm scared my heart will win,
I'm terrified it won't.