A love so brittle it might as well be bound in papyrus.

The faintest of smiles would rekindle it though, and etch more scriptures onto once bony, stony hearts.

The silent tick of the clock
Brings me home to you

The silent tick of the clock
Brings me home, to you.

You are the unwritten sensation,
The unspoken passion.

Held passively,
Arms bound around my skin,

Just the two of us,
In this moment forever.

C'est la vie./Through the glass

We abashedly curled at lips

Swooned at hips

Harkening back to a period of time that no longer existed

(Where is my mind?)

She was-
Is still beautiful
Neither there, just here now.

Her voice echoing ever and ever :

"Hello."

We're fiction as long we're not within grasp
My diction requires your palm on my crown
Your friction may just feed me benediction.


The heart's jurisdiction is a fickle contraption
A not so subtle crucifixion nor constriction
Ensued when I fought against interdiction

You've become my addiction, my mental preoccupied obsession.
A depiction of dereliction's eviction.
Never again will there be remission's nonfiction.

You are to me, like how blood and wine are interchangeable, mutable.

I am to you, the raging storm passing by the coast, cold relief down your spine.


Both together, hand in hand, an addictive desire to better oneself, and the lust for ruination.


You are the ghost I'll never give up.

Deaden my nerves please.
Hold me so tight I cease to breathe.
Let the burn encompass my being.

Kiss me,
Kiss me again.

Love me,
Love me again.


Love me so hard
I cease to exist

He rises
And he takes control of one last joy spreading through my cooling corpse.

On a lighter note,
Love is a striptease that never ends
Even the most jaded will grudgingly admit
And for the notes that struck the heart
Notes that bring synthesia into the gray
Daring the gloom to seep, weeping into life
Enter joy, endless mirth, for it is how things should be.
Rejuvenating, primordial essence for the soul, and a cool wind for the mind.