I'd kiss your bleeding wounds, but what right does the man who gave those shreds have to cure? A loving embrace that melts your heart and makes you feel in a haven would be another option, but I'm sure my mere warmth would burn and scar your limbs even further.
I can smell the hate through the phone, and as I inhale I remember all those memories of dead love and burden. This would have been my excuse to give up restraint and spit out fire, burning all the attacks against me and illuminating your logic as wrong.
But I don't care about being right, my compulsion stems out of loyalty to the good times, the ones I wish would coat over all the fights, angry statements, and immature behavior.
However, like I said, who am I to heal your wounds, and I'm sure when air passes through and stings, it helps, because it gives you a tool to hate me and curse down every apology I give.
