I could watch you break apart piece by piece till all the pieces that made you were at my feet. I would enjoy the sound of your soul hitting the ground. It would sound like hail as it pelts the ground with a willingness to die. A need for finality as shattered self meets shattered moment. Would I glue you back together and lie to your face about retained worth? Or instead admit that something is now gone. Dead and buried. Never to be had again.