Melanthe:
Theon, the nights are long and cold,
the world feels dim, the stars look old.
How do you bear a heart that’s torn,
and walk through days so frayed and worn?
Theon:
I do not bear it, not alone—
I let it walk, a shadow grown.
It trails me close through dusk and dawn,
a silent friend that lingers on.
Melanthe:
But it bites my bones, it tears my skin,
I want to cast it out, lock it in.
To fling it far where waves can keep,
and drown it deep in endless sleep.
Theon:
Yet seas return what we let go,
loss rides each tide, it learns to grow.
It seeps like salt in wounds unhealed,
a ghost the years cannot conceal.
Melanthe:
Then is there hope? Or only pain,
a winter that will not refrain?
Theon:
Hope is not in forgetting’s art—
but setting a place in the home of your heart
To hum their song through the tremor and ache,
to honor the bonds that nothing can break.
Melanthe:
And will this ache ever fade away?
Theon:
It shifts, it blooms in its own strange way.
A garden of wild, untamed hue—
watered by love, and remembered by you.
-Deia