I confessed a love you were never to hear of. I confessed in the strongest of forms, pen to paper. I wrote and signed my confession like a death warrant. Signing off on your love and giving you the authority to **** me.
You always did take your job a little too seriously.
Now my sentences are not jumbled but in a solid structure, for you.
II.
I find it impossible to write of my first love. I could endlessly write smoking metaphors or over-analyse the looks I catch between strangers on the street.
I could give you ten reasons why I love spring and yellow flowers, but I could not write more than ten words about my first love.
I do not wonder how he spends his time, I do not care of the 'man' he grows to be. Nor do I direct sentences towards him because to me he does not exist.
He died on that December day, since then I have spoken with the ghost of a fifteen year old boy that spit poison down my throat then died, claiming to be Romeo.
That is not how the story goes.
III.
i am, i am, I am.
before I knew you, I would have described you in worryingly accurate detail as my ideal.