Oh ye foolish mortal

He had sworn, never again.  The love game had failed him one too many times.  Or perhaps he failed it, two too many.  Regardless, he'd tapped out.  This was a game for the younger, and the better. Those who still maintained the ability to be enchanted. He'd lost that years ago, constantly finding himself in situations, that once had profoundly affected him.  Where once his heart would race, and his breathing become shallow...now there was simply observation of what was missing.  And he took pride in that.  In his hubris, he had found salvation.  Kindness comes easier when there's nothing to gain. Nothing to lose.

And he went into the world, armed with a new self knowledge. This was better.  This was for the best. And he would see the world new. The younger and the better doing what the younger and better do best.  He took a perverse delight in being unaffected. That little beating red lump of flesh trapped beneath skin and ribs, became oak, and then became stone.

His life became easier, unencumbered with longing or desire, and he found clarity in simplicity. He discovered so many other things to love instead. Life. Words. Tiny moments with himself, shared with no one. This was easy. This was perfect.

Occasionally at first, people would ask him if this was real. If he was serious. Sometimes others would say it was simply a facade. Some would tell him he just needed to put himself out there again. Some would ask if he was ever going to.  He would simply smile and say no.

He knew other things as well. The secrets he kept to himself. The pain he would inevitably feel.  The pain he would inevitably cause.  He knew the things about himself that no one else knew.  No one else could ever know.

And he knew it was all for the best.

She danced into his existence with a smile, and an indifference he could never be prepared for.  His truths to her were lies, and his words to her were met with empty platitudes of gratitude.  She could see every beauty in the world, except her own.  Her smile was her facade. His experience was his.

And he told himself, over and over and over again, that it was all for the best.

So why couldn't he stop thinking of her.

His mind raged. Screaming its silent denial into a frozen cozmos. Why? He made a promise. A fucking promise. She stole his ability to keep it. Even worse...she'd never know.

His stupid fucking beating lump of stone beneath ribs and skin became oak. Then it became flesh. Then it ripped and shredded, and became nova in his chest. 

He watched her tears with a smile on his face.

He heard her words, of her own pain, and he could do nothing for his own.

Pain.

Pain.

The price he knew that life demands for constant service rendered.

The price he'd tried so desperately to skip out on. 

He let it happen.  The way he always had.

He gathered the pieces back.

Her pain.  Completely seperate from his own...and yet the cause of it.

He sits alone. Reminded of all of life's little bullshit tricks. Realizing his own foolishness. He watches the tendrils of cigarette smoke, paint her eyes as it floats away.

He remembers why...

He forces himself over and over and over again...why...

Why...

Why....

It must all be for the best.