Let's pretend my tears are warm and my frown is a smile,
let's pretend you never left me, even for a while.
Let's close our eyes at the radiance of vacant dreams,
let's say our lids have not opened but waited for a moment.
Let me pretend I've never been hurt, that lies are but a
shade of white;
we are but history hung from another era in a velvet world
where the victor tells the tale.
Let's pretend this song has not being sung and
that the rhythm of my melody hasn't been plagiarized by
the impostor with a pen and paper.
Let's pretend we are one, under the billow of a mind,
that the sky is the blanket of our sleep and doesn't harbor
but our bodies in the shores of the night tide.

On these lonely nights of fruitless sleep,
where my insomnia kicks in and worries slither from the
depths of my pillows,
I empty the bottle of cold, and effervescent oblivion.
I drown in the seas of sensations, vivid, stark and stale
as the tickling and the watering flush down my clogged throat;
flushing secrets I had not dared to voice.
I dwell on my heavy eyelids, waiting for the curtains
to drape over the ghastly blares of reality.
The world is muted, my ears are deaf to words not spoken
and laments suffocated to the howling airs of my torment.
I wait for the storm to cease, for the gears to run but my
weary mind is dulled and perplexed to horrors of past mistakes.
So, skittish and condemned, my heart disdains;
committing the same scenes, reliving atrocious crimes.

I'll be the girl with the tight, black dress;
the girl in the scarlet lipstick and smudged eyeliner,
the girl with fluttery lashes, standing at the corner.
I'll be at the back of the crowd, as couples dance
and sweet nothings are whispered from the speakers.
I'll stand in solitude, accompanied by misery
and loving every minute of it, as lights flicker;
a kaleidoscope of galaxies from effects of lighting.
I'll be the girl without a care for a partner,
hiding behind a mask of shadows.
I'll be the one who leaves early for another party,
dance with strangers in the eve of night;
a butterfly from flower to flower, as you go to bed
with hunger.
I'll be the first to see the dawn and the last to wake
from slumber, not quite sober.
I'll be the girl with the sour aftertaste in her mouth,
the one with the sly smile and yet another crime.

She hopes, silently, that he will chase her,
catch her in his embrace and smother her
with feverish kisses.
He wants to glance back, towards the stinging
sun, towards the opposite direction she has stayed in
and beacon her with words of licorice.
She wishes to let her voice drown the antagonistic
opposition to their current disposition and listen
attentively to reciprocated admissions.
But they cannot, will not, because
this is not a fairy tale, this is not a fantasy, this
is the sad reality of both decisions.
And so torn apart between letting go or
catching to,
they walk away towards opposite directions.

You're a wizard, I should know.
Capture my thoughts with memory spells,
Enrapture my eyes with the charms of yours, and
quicken my beats with a grin of your lips.
Gravity ceases with a snap of your fingers.
Yes, you're a wizard, I whisper,
because no muggle could possess the magic
hold you mantain in my self.

It is a priviledge to be loved by a poet,
to be embraced by the meter and the rhyme
and caressed by soft metaphors and sharp alliterations.
To be painted a universe with words and run-on sentences
that converge in a single thought expressed with
similes and repetitions of a single symbol.
It is an honor to be loved by a poet,
to be celebrated with odes, mourned with elegys
and elevated to a pedestal by a canticle.
It is a marvel to be loved by a poet,
to be the muse of long, weary nights of concentration
and be part of passionate lines in dramatic monologues
as each is recited with the intonation of rising ardour.
To be submerged in sizzling appreciation of one's quirks
and virtue.
To be loved and to love.
To provoke an inspiration and a sigh of ephemeral longing
and bring about a remedy to the mourning.
It is a misery and joy to be loved and be of unrequited
provocative inspiration to the riveting mind of a lone
and solitary poet.

They tell me I am a passing fancy,
that kissing the vapor of my skin is
like the ***** of sacred chambers.
They tell me I am cancer of the skin,
that my cells divide, unstoppable,
ignite the flesh at a lethal price of taste.
They whisper in my ear, sorrowful
pleas and sinful lullabies of promise;
and when tears slither acidic and sear
rosy imprints of a trail in the apples of
their cheeks,
they'll snivel and sniffle:
“But by God, I loved you.”
Despite the surly mood they often displayed,
like the tongue of silver from a metallic
taste of venom on the planes of my skin.
So, I told them I tire of synonyms of a same
word;
that loving a different person of different flesh
remains the same as long as character does not
fluctuate.