how can i say that i envy the chase from the tip of my pencil to your graphite gaze? spitting my heart onto an endless canvas of greys and blacks, hoping the red would stain… but it never does. only your floral words are indelible on my skin and the reverse is just a lie i tell myself so i could sleep a little better every forsaken night. the truth is far from your moon; beyond all your pretty stars and iridescent eternities, it is despairingly beyond my fathoms. but i hope, and again i hurt for butterfly smiles and deluding taciturn undertows and nightmarish illusions leaving bruises of you on the very tip of my lost tongue and all over my wept eyes; a lifeless empty void against the autumn shower of your warm hermetic glances. and there is no one else to keep this rusted clockwork ticking rhythmically to the beats of your mindless cradle… and that is the ultimate folly of this ascetic destructive shale that i tactlessly call my soul. for a fool’s machinery, this chemical heart is. So indiscernible to lose itself in such vitreous self-infliction, and sabotaging the very blood that my tiring arteries now regain, thus to sustain the very memory of your breath in tranquil consonance… foolish—and yet; a fool, i am. a fool for believing that this lie was past the dark side of the moon and beyond my wounded stars and lacklustre infinities… you are despondently beyond my fathoms. but i hope, and again, i hurt. darling, just how can i ever say that i envy the calm reflection from the incipience of your melody to your coda’s revelations?