It’ll be written with guilt and not at all,
everything I wish I could write to you,
a thousand lines in a teardrop
wiped away before bed again.
In the morning I stand on the front lines,
proud to battle on,
and I don’t know if it’s guilt
that keeps me there,
but it certainly helps.
Was it me that killed your voice
and stopped the wrestling,
or was it just a side effect of ever after-
is the fire withheld from me
or is it gone?
Y’know I never meant to let you give up that easy,
but maybe I’m the only one who needs to fight.
And so I carve your name in every conquered city
as for a dead comrade who should’ve had that chance,
but I don’t even know if you’d have wanted it,
if you’ve got better things to do with all your time.
And the guilt that I could write about believing
that it had anything to do with me at all
is a companion to the fear that keeps me moving
’cause I don’t want whatever thing
it may have been.
Because if happiness picked off the greatest brawler I have known,
my fate is sealed to fight for both of us alone,
so that everything I could ever wish to write to you
must be written, bound in guilt, and not at all.