Your love was the foggy, soot-filled landscape. The dawn overlooking the scene. The light piercing through the smog. The hot, smothering air with a dry powder texture that cakes my lungs. Infects me.
     Your love was desolate; with only the sound of your voice tethering it to the rest of the world. The sound of the fastidious, yet somewhat, saturnine emotion was enough to keep me interested. You are the background noise that emanates from a television in an empty room that keeps me company. Your love is the remains of a scrapyard, landfill, or the outskirts of a factory. It is busy yet barren. Occupied but lonely. Near but never there.
   Your love was a pile of dirt, trash, and soot. Your love did nothing but overlook the melancholy of me. As if it was the eyes of god, they judged the corruption and pollution of my greed and desire with not anger or hate, but instead, with regret and sadness. It was always watching; always judging. And I was cursed. Never able to look away.