And most times it would remain about the sheer acrimony of everything that contacted you through those tips like hot wax pouring on your skin, each time you pulled out the ill-fated diary. For, each time, you would try to corral her onto your rag of mishaps, your chagrin spread like wildfire all over the pulp, every time your prose approaches with lesser dignity but such allure, the time she validated your existence in her life. For, each time, you spoke of the winters she carried, you reminisced her pasty hands wrapped in the rusty gloves, reminding you of Christmas morning around your expiring pyre. For, each time, you would try to scrawl about trust being the first step to betrayal, you would fondly tell the worn leathers about your birthday that fateful year. For, each time, you curse her narcissism obnoxiously, I hear whispers of you humming a sonnet of her altruism when you found those orphans. For, each time, you would boast over the beer of having held her down the longest, you shut your blotters around everyone, lest anyone would read and put together untold morsels of her ballads. For, each time, you wrote about how much of a conceited tart she was, I feel a polemical rant erupting about Kipling and Dickens. For, each time, you tried to collar her in your inscriptions, I see you lighting her stories up in fire to keep you hoarded with her warmth every night. For, each time, you gasconade about your seclusion, I see you reaching for that last raindrop slithering its way through the tree, hoping you could create and destroy her again, in your own piddly rainbows.