An Assassin reflects.

Life, thin strands of possibilities spun endlessly, easily cut, impossibly
tangled in the skein of the universe that surrounds me, I questioned little
since I had known no joy and the darkness and light were simply places in
which to hide. I never asked the right things so moral meant little until love
tore like a splinter into my flesh and the wound became infected as nothing
would remedy that sweet sickness.
Love, a word that has no meaning and yet still remains like blood stains
lingering like the last breathes of the dying man still clawing his way out
of certain death, hoping in vain, in need of that one last chance that none
of this all happened to him, that the whispers were just the winds in his ears,
not the sobs of the fallen, jilted girls that he left behind as if by departing
he could escape what his heart would not abandon.
Laughter, a foreign idea in a non-spoken tongue that speaks in dulcet tones
like the rasp of steel on stone yet echoes long after the silence was broken
in the alleys on my mind, I look behind, I look behind. Now the walls close
in and all this emotion wears thin, my time grows short as all my mistakes
and errors in judgement drown me in their cruel reminders that I should
have denied my very nature and defied all that I have believed in. That
a stolen moment had more meaning than all these small insignificant
deaths I have committed since the last time we kiss there in the
plaza square.