I would do anything to be with you,
that is true.
However there comes a time
when I must face that nothing
I say or make or impose
will allow that to be the circumstance.

The thing stopping us being together is you,
and God knows I cannot change you.

I would do anything to be with you,
that is true.
But I cannot be with you.
It will **** me to move on,
but I'll be ****** if I don't.

Absence is presence, but not of the same.
His absence brings the presence of sadness,
And a presence of sorts, who lives in my mind
But is simply lacking
In smell
In form
In wonder.

His absence coincides with the presence of my hands,
Touching my forlorn, desperate face,
In places he might touch if he was present.

The dawning of the sadness
Upon another lonely absence,
And an inadequate presence trying to catch up.

Malicious and inflicting
alas, what Night doth only bless?
So dull and bland,
naturally augmenting one pale and pining pain.
We yearn for a ray which might cast light to the stubborn darkness,
ultimately submitting to what we knew
and our fathers knew was coming.
It is in our nature to deny the shrieking enmity which Night bestows,
with our ever predictable stories which terminate with the same dirge.

I loved her.

And the damning tense in which the line is whimpered only concludes my battle with Night.

He takes over my being
and I submit.
I cry over him, dream about him
I let him consume me
In my lackadaisical mind,
I enjoy it.

You could say I wasn't coping,
But these fallacies engulf my subconscious,
coating my nerves like a drug.

He gives me sunlight when even moonlight is shy,
I am grateful to his blissful oblivion
though I would prefer will,
I shall still abandon everything else for him,
Only him,
My drug,
My sun,
My being

And yet.
Do I merely dream these dreams of love?