"You love me?" you asked.
Confusion in your eyes, in your soul.
"You didn't know?" I replied. Simple.

"I have loved you, perhaps, for as long as I have known you.
I would let you tear my heart out, in all its porcelain glory, and shatter it on the ground.
I would let you kiss me and then, if you wished, I would let you leave me.
I would let you put your knife in my stomach and, if you wished, I would scream nicely for you.
I would tie this blessed red string around my neck if you merely asked.
Although, I would hope that you do not ask that of me, my dear."

So you look down, at the string we are both holding.
It trembles, ever so slightly. Shudders.

Carefully, I take that which connects us (always).
You watch me, and I take a needle
and drive the sharp end into flesh and bone.
First you, and then I. And then you, and then I. And I continue.

Then it is done.
Slowly, gently, you pull the string taut.
Forehead to forehead,
chest to chest,
knees knocking against knees.
The string is dampened with a different type of red.
We will not be separate again. Not ever. You know this as well as I.
Something of this magnitude cannot be undone, the string cannot be unpicked.

"Perhaps, I did know." You said, then. A concession.
Clarity in your soul, and in mine.
"Perhaps, I was simply waiting for you to say it."