Here is how I tell you the truth.

I haven't the slightest idea how to put these words onto something as gut-wrenching and precise as how the throne of these pulsating rhythms have been in a daze since Day One.

I'm afraid I can only reciprocate your gestures by poetic spontaneity and making you chuckle with my innuendo expertise; my words and actions may only go as far as this one foot on the ground lets me. It pains me every millisecond past midnight, see, and often more as I fill my guts with shots of nausea, my brain plays dailies of you brushing my hair off my cheek or humming to sleep on my chest, to which I profusely bleed.

So perhaps it won't hurt too much to tell you a thing I hold dearly in this massive void I thought was my heart after all.

In the grand scheme of things, I am certain that my profound affection towards you must have manifested from strong willful denial in such a manner that I've learned to love until there's not more I can give but love, no matter the expense.

But I guess that far beyond my naïvety, I have come to seek comfort in those lips that tasted nicotine yet dripping in honey, sending me to heaven and hell back and fro as you utter, "I'll take another one."

I hear the voices say I took it too far, the way I adore the jade and byzantium skies you would paint on my skin with your bare hands. What I spill under those sheets, wearing only deep longing and velvet honesty, is not what was left of me -- it's everything I have.

But what's more to lose when you already had the bullet lodged deep right into your chest?

So here goes, so blatant as it may seem, but you are the trickling toxicity in my *****, the massive pit of flames that found home in my soul.

Лучик.  

Anyone or anything else will never come close and coax me into realising otherwise. I perceive us far too vividly, so morbidly -- a mad choking audacity as infinite as all there is.

I hope you don't mind, for I'm in too deep to be at odds with the fact that, God, I must have loved you so much.

I wish I could write for the times that you’re silently breathing in and out your resting hums beside me, for every late afternoon we spend together under chilly air and white noise. For when I’m still awake at 4:36 am aching to burn for you, while your arms jolt between blurry dreams, I strive to describe.

You are beautiful beyond words, and that’s both fascinating and frustrating to realize.

I guess that’s how this thing goes. It breaks significant rules and crosses all existing boundaries. Everything is manipulated: it is pugnacious on the clever and subtle ones, and since history it’s been known to prey on seemingly indestructible fortresses. It crumbles in and makes its way through your bloodshot eyes and feeble set of vessels and stimulates you to rip your innards out. It dishevels hackneyed ideas and leaves out the faint ens of a grey static, sending out a stinging sensation that is shrouded in obscurity. And amusing it is that you will more likely come to a point in which you feel nothing more grievous than the feeling of adhering oneself to a fine strand of barbed wire whilst being dramatically suspended high off the ground.

How barbaric, my love. You do what you usually do for a living—engulfing your usual sadistic self—whilst I, as usual, take part in this stupid little game as a masochistic airhead.