I think this is what love is supposed to be like.
For someone who boasts of an astuteness being so high that it’s almost a talent, you surely couldn’t see through my facade of ill-intent. No matter. Since love has been revoked and passed to a much more appropriate suitor, I feel like I should keep some sort of vehemence between us. We’ve ventured through too many planes of fire and brimstone to merely forget about one another. And since you’ve left me with such wonderful and permanent memorabilia, I’ll be damned if I allow your memory of me to die. It’s almost a duty to keep it alive, really. With all of the vermilion tally marks recording every time you’ve driven me to the corners of my mind, it feels as though I actually owe it to you to make you remember me. So, cheers. I raise my glass of a love scorned, and drink to a new era of passion - I will be your anathema.
I want to resound my name through your tongue to know what I taste like in your mouth.
I want to see how wind combs the strands from my face in your eye’s reflection to understand your captivation.
I want to admire the way sunlight tightens my pupils to reveal brighter hues of green with you———-
I want to feel your heart clench as your fingertips graze discolored, raised flesh so maybe I can————
STOP I need to experience myself through romanticized eyes and find visions of beauty in the only place I see none.
When I hear a beautiful voice, something wells up inside of me. I take it in as my own. Then, I part my lips and try to emulate the sounds with such high hopes, and all that comes out are wisps of hot, crackling air and broken notes. These things always happen. I’ll read passages of poetry, completely in awe and entirely captivated. Pen to the page, and I can never find the same eloquence. I feel failure as an artist. All I can do is feel. Emotion and inspiration trapped in here, lacking the ability to tap into myself. There’s only so much one can express with images and paintings. I need to convey everything in every way, and I simply don’t have the skill. It’s maddening. I wonder if this is a common thing amongst those with vision.
I’ve been away from my life, taking a vacation in your lavish home. And you make me so happy when I’m with you. Flooded in gifts, in love, affection. Your mother adores me, even if it is out of pity, or she finds it refreshing to relate in the realms of hell that we’ve seen. We laugh together. It warms me to see you smiling, to see those escapes from the anguishes that plague you. I hold you and heal you, and hope that the things I do for you last when I leave. I want to give you what you give me, and I do try. You insist it’s fine, but I know it isn’t. Your soft eyes betray you, love. When we part, I know you can see through me. You see my thoughts clearly, as if they were your own: At the end of the day, when I go back to my crumbling house and slip back into my disjointed little world, I’m not yours. We’re just enjoying and tending to each other until you see your damning black feather fall.
You were entirely correct in saying, “You still don’t know me.” The person I fell in love with has changed, and I’m still laying at your feet waiting for him to return.
It’s rare for me to be stricken in such a way by beauty. You’re a dangerous one, and you don’t know me, but you’re absolutely captivating. I desire nothing more but to know you. I haven’t decided whether or not I’ll speak to you because it’s extremely unsafe, but the thought is so enticing. I’ve been trying to steer away from trouble. I almost wish I hadn’t seen your face.