There's a way in which I break for beauties like you. It's a performance piece, not of the egoistic sort, but rather a birthed love-child of servility and altruism. Here's my recipe, if you ever wanted to scrutinise my path to death.
First, i stare. And marvel in awe at the carved beauty of you and wonder how many cities you've inspired.
Second is initiation. A delicate dance to either be executed from a carnal desire or a romantic want. I choose one or another, seldom do I pick both; tho they end the same way.
Third is the burning period. I will saturate myself with unwarranted loyalty at this point. I morph to their warmth and this is where it gets sick.
Fourth: obsession. If you look into my eyes you will see a longing to drown and to go back to the ocean that is you. It's potent enough to drive me insane. Consuming.
Fifth, i surrender. I'd ask you to take off that fire. I want you to still exist but to go burn somewhere else. To be a forest-fire that inspires rather than to maim me insolently.
Sixth is penance dressed masochistically. I torture myself for reasons he wouldn't understand or is justified, but I somehow think it's salubrious.
Seventh concerns with the cycle of death. I die for you, over and over again. I choose to do this.
Eighth is where my pain becomes stagnant and transition into ghosts with names.
Ninth better itself to be the point of moving on and building graves on reverence for even having a taste of perfection.
Tenth, I repeat this whole process.
Dedicated to myself. For once.