My cup runneth over with the most imperceptible despair.
A heart that weeps bitterly for itself,
For the futility and desperation of its existence:
To love, to love, to love,
For naught.

Churning and rattling within;
If only I could ***** up this feeling
To rid myself of it.
No, it grows steadily,
A sickness as deep as the Thames,
The banks of which he wanders
Aimlessly, searching the ripples
For life.

There is no way to drain love from oneself.
If I possessed the will, I would bleed myself dry.
There would be more relief there
Than in the insufferable nature of distance
And the anguish of flesh not kissed.