Two years gone and pain remains as strong as the first day, 

Not just for him, and this is known is spades, though denied by one. 

As if it had been left alone the whole time it would have spoken volumes, 

But it was not, not left in the past by either, 

And the silent contact speaks more than oceans. 

This is the way it is, 

The way it will be, 

Three years, four, forever more. 

The only difference being that he accepts it as reality, accepts the pain as part of him, accepts his guilt, 

While she vainly tries to ignore it, ignore hers, to run from it, to replace the pain with insincerity in false love for another. 

But damage of the kind suffered cannot be erased with time, nor with someone else, 

As it stabs to the core of existence and pieces of each other remain embedded in their hearts. 

She can fight it, but she will not win, 

Only harm herself irreparably in self-reproach unspoken to him whom it needs to be said, 

Him whom it needs to be made up to. 

She did not love in word or deed, but she did inside, and her heart knows the truth of her soul. 

It does not matter if she thinks she won, for she has lost, lost love, lost loyalty, 

And strives in vain to replace it with facsimile. 

Pain forever is both their reward, his accepted, hers covered over with a thin veneer of callousness, 

And drowned in drunken shallowness. 

She needs to love him, in some way. 

She needs to pay her debt. 

And he needs to be heard, forgiven, and made whole by her concessions. 

He is damned, damned himself. 

But if she remains in obstinacy, her god will damn her, and she knows it, 

For she knows what dwells inside her that she refuses to let out.

Nothing can ever end without embrace.