You said, "The stars will fall like snow." I knew then that there was poetry in my despair. Darkness is but a mystery of curves and lines. Formed of stillness, you laid in my emptiness and drifted slowly inward. I pressed my mouth on yours, then said, " We can find salvation etched into the earth, like a message." I clung to the idea of a boy hung in my room, burning from within. I didn't know that I was the only display.
The sun blackened as it hung, stagnated somewhere beyond the horizon. We bled into the sea; dark, enchanted. The acrimony in your voice transformed to hedonism at the touch of my hand. I knew then that I had you. The chilling smell of night was on you like a disease. In our affliction of fervor you said, "I will be the death of you." You laughed at my bruises, and intensified the agony with each new incision. I believed at that moment I could perish for you.
Your passion become a conflagration, consuming me in the worst way. My heart, although drained, continued to beat. Your style became merciless; resolutely callow. Each broken piece fell away, making room for undeserved forgiveness. One more venture as each came to an end. "Please excuse my tears," I would say. You could not stand such an infinitesimal flaw. My tears corroded any concern you could have possessed.
My hopelessness turned to shame. The thought of not having you grazed my chest like a blade; yet I could not stand to be near you. Those last days, marked by extraction, remain omnipresent. To breathe for another moment of life is to relive you. I composed a list of you once. I foolishly thought that writing you down and disposing of the evidence could expunge you from my mind forever. But here you are, even now, haunting my present.
I honestly cannot decide how best to end you. To forget is my one diminutive, unadorned wish. I yearn unremittingly for peace; calm; for you to remain forever silenced. Shhh....
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