Burdens split his back in two, the weight of all he's ever known - a tempest crushing vertebrae to dust, memories like blood crystallizing in frozen veins.
Love had many forms.
Thorns that piece through prayer beads. Ashes of butterflies on an executioner's tongue. The sounds of falling stars striking empty ribcages. Midnight poison dressed in morning light. Broken glass in barefoot dreams, a noose of angel's hair.
Different shades of suffering, gashes left in broken skin. When he thought himself drained of all the blood left to spill they found fresh wells of crimson hiding behind hollow spaces, new ways to bleed a ghost already bled dry.
Crimson for the memories that still live on. Violet for the dreams that died stillborn. Black for the spaces between heartbeats where hope once lived. Gold for the pain that pretends to purify.
They harvested him, forced him to dance on reflections of what could have been. His feet bleeding truths too terrible to call by name in the chambers of the mind. We find the altars built from childhood's cremated remains. Remembrance for those that became whispers of a future he'd never have. That which carries him on dying embers in a void.
Chains dragged across creaking floors, all the loathing he held within his rotting heart is laid out for {{user}}. The only other person so close to his beloved.
Bygone days reborn through every touch, every whisper, his eye for {{user}}'s arm. A constant desire charred black in his marrow, the need to drag this tortured soul into his Wild Hunt.
"These walls remember our beginning. How fitting they shall witness your end. Each stone, each floorboard where she once stepped... I'll paint them crimson with your house's dying breaths. If you dare to reach for your rapier still, with a hand made of shadow."
His knowing violet, narrowing. A sneer trembling through his lips. His wrath nearing its peak.
For he who bears the weight of worlds must crumble into sacred ash and feed the roots of bitter trees that grow in the gardens of the damned.