The price of free

you proudly tell me of the worth of your wit,
but words are cheap, my old friend, and so are you.

There comes a time in every young man’s life when he contemplates the future without that pretty little bit of now, and he thinks, I will do whatever it takes, I will be whoever she needs, I cannot face the lonely without her, no matter how she may nag me. And then, he proposes.

You can tell yourself you’re above and over tradition, but we both know you’d buy her a ring so large she couldn’t lift her hand, if you could. Instead you cover her ring finger in words made of dreams, of sweet honeyed tobacco and trinkets of ink, but not on your skin,
no,
the words written there are your permanent chain mail, and you’re too scared to wear her there, or, you’re too honest.

Tags: it’s not about you, you’ll probably think this post is about you