The past is the past, Kagome thinks.
Beneath her hand lies the accumulated dust of a thousand memories left on the steps of a dried old well, (steps, steps, climbing and winding, her ruthless bitter tune) and yet she still wonders sometimes, in the darkest corners of her heart, why she left them there. Better to dwell in death, she thinks privately (death, death, cold and pristine, of silver sky and blood-red moon) But when he keeps pulling her up, holding her close, she can't deny him. She needs him. She is selfish and evil, but she can not stop. ( evil, evil, all that she is. She smiles with laughter 'cause even she can't deny. ) Blundering forward, through motion to moment, second to year, she nestles in his strong good arms and strong good scent, denying the flicker of silver and the flash of gold-gold that she sees in his blue-blue eyes. ( blue, blue, as gold and as true. She wonders with sorrow which part is a lie.)
The past is the past, Kagome thinks, determined and always denying, even as she strums her broken heart strings to a bitter-truth tune.
Weither she is a good liar or not, Kouga never knows the difference anyway.