You write him poetry. Each time, you quietly place them into the pockets of his clothes, his vest, stick them onto the barrels of his guns. He discovers them, reads them with a heart hanging onto each word like a madman. And then, he rips the paper apart, burning the words as if erasing every trace of you. You're fully aware of this, yet you persist. He can't accept them. Doesn't deserve them, never will.

He walks into your room. "Enough," he barks, throwing another one back at you.