My arm feels hot and sore,

as I contemplate, how much more?

How much more can I take,

how much more till I wither like autumn leaves and my face hollows into a shade of black.

My eyes, losing their youthful glow, and my rose-colored lips turning into the pale color of my surrounding skin.

To be quite honest,

I will probably last till you tell me "Enough!",

as I cling onto you like a lost chilf. 

And truthfully, I am one.

Not like I'd tell you that, though.

My mind will tell me that you are one of the past,

but then I see you.

Walking down the hall with your perfect insecurity and beautiful quaintness, and my heart shouts over my mind.

I tell it, "Stupid heart. Stay out of the way."

But it never does, you see. 

For the heart is the easiest detector of my insecurities, and shuts them out, solely focusing on the now.

As my arm continues to ache, I know that I can take it.

As long as you are in my life, you beautiful man with the hidden knife.