Oh Dionysus.
How I miss you,
but your blood....gives me anxiety.
It makes people hate me, I can't stand to be
alone.

I can't say I don't miss dancing with you
But it's not much of a party with just the two of us.
No one else is willing to dance for long.

There was a time where you were,
my only friend
and you would smile and take me in your arms while
I sobbed and enjoyed the haze of your being.
I in turn, worshipped you. Even if research, candles and hymns, libations of your own blood and my perfume could hardly be enough.

It's all I have, my lord.

While I miss the roiling, twisting madness of your magnificence
I shouldn't be there.
I want to be, desperately
but I pick up a bottle and look at myself in disgust and shame.
It's not you, it's me.
This is far from a disillusionment of gods.
I will still dance, my lord, just perhaps not as closely as before.

I need to stop wishing
We had that bond (again)
You are not capable of depth

You're ill

You will never  (just) be free of your rotten soul
You need to clean it
And it will take time

But perhaps we are just, different
This would be a shame
For I miss your sweet sweet voice
And
Laughter
I miss indulging you

Your sage advice

I knew I'd lose you just like
I've lost so many
But it never gets easier

I love the smell of orange most.
It doesn't go well with purple,
but it represents everything I am not.

I make up for my lack of sunshine by wrapping it around me,
a neckerchief in any season.
I cover up the cracks that leak blue, the scent of
the sleepiest lavender.
I'd rather be gold, a heady sharp awakening - compared to the wispy breeze that settles on my shoulders.
I am tired of sleeping when I'd rather be citrus, shining.