I love you even when we are apart. Yours is the face that haunts me in the witching hours late at night, when I should be deeply entranced as supernatural spirits dance in the wide open spaces of the great outdoors. My heart beats your name, as your voice pulsates through my veins; ebbing and flowing, failing to cease. I trick myself into believing that you are not the one, though you are the only one I can depend on, my neverending sun. The light that peeks through my drapes teases my reverie reminiscent of Antony feeding Cleopatra grapes. You are my muse and my teacher too, as you help me become more insightful. Like a tattoo, you are permanently etched unto my skin; I can pretend you are not there but am reminded when caught offguard. You are my boxer, fighting perfect in your art; Cupid, as your arrows pierce my heart. I have allowed myself to negate you for too long, like misinterpreting a song whose meaning is clear and strong. My bones are weakened by your absence in my life, my nodes are swollen like a prisoner ensconced in strife. The world is so much colder when you are not within arm's reach, I am easier to bruise like a slowly rotting peach. I lay enchanted by your memory as I envision all the long ago, yet your day old hate just festers, no longer quid pro quo. I will bestow you with my riches, or power if that is your will. Just as long as you continue to allow me the good fortune of making me feel like a million dollar bill. I am a mere pauper, burdened with sorrows galore; yet I can still assure you that no one else could love you more. My bounty is not endless, and I am slowly losing my sight, but my soul will always see you as my shining armoured knight. Much to my contrite, you have found another home. I should have acted as if I were in Rome and postponed the sins for which I had yet to atone. My crimes against humanity are not equal to the pain that I have caused you, yet my internal bleeding seems never to subdue. I see you in his arms, and you lack the charm that I once saw; you are broken now, and flawed, in your house that is built of straw. And mine of glass, so I will not cast the first or second stone. I will instead remain amidst the valley of the shadow of death, amasked in guilt cast in a grave marked unknown.
Time stood still for nary a soul, it dragged its feet, aching and old. Blistering heat that made us melt, we were once softer than silk felt. Hallowed hearts wind whistled through, covered in bruises, black and blue. Hardly broken, but maybe bent, running on empty and love spent. There comes a day in all our lives, when our failures cut deep as knives. But you shall remain a triumph, you stayed with me, like a science. Words were whispered, curses, we'd shout, until the blood drained from our mouths. Yesterday—softer than silk felt; seems like all we do these days is yell.
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