Mourning Suit.

I call her my widow, not wife. For I shall die in the name of love, that much is certain.
If not from a broken heart, then from the process of trying to fix it.
I am the spawn of adoration and wretchedness.
And through my mind, body and soul they do battle.
I am divided between the very last word in good and evil.
Sitting on the fence, staring aimlessly into to pits of Hell and the clouds of Heaven.
I have become a representative of all things misinterpreted.
And I speak the last sane words of the realist;
"I wish I were anywhere but here, with nobody but you"

4/3/10

If conclusiveness is the be all and end all of my acceptance, then I conclude nothing, thus accepting only that I am yet to be anything other than unfathomably haunted by the apparition of prior glorious acts.
I often sit for a moment or many and muse upon the only thought I wish to be answered genuinely; Do my consistent thoughts of you appear to be mutual, or are my most dreaded thoughts at large, banishing my existence in its entirety from the very core of your subconscious?

My mind can't help but drift towards the delectability of certain passages you once spoke to me, or the misfortune of being granted the position: 'Loyal Recipient", to a heart that would later appear to be nothing more than an image of great misrepresentation. Alas, I find harrowing comfort in the uncertainty of it all, and so I shall continue to ponder upon the subject, for the sake of keeping my mind fixed on unimaginable beauty.

You are the disease that has brought this blackness to my organs.
A shadowy vale that now hangs over the haunted face of my well being.

What has writing about tragic love become, besides a spectacle for those who see it merely as a collection of well strung words and phrases, that benefit them through admiration of beauty, yet little else?
Does blindness possess those that know not of pain through use of literature?
Evidently so, as true as heartlessness seems to, also.
Yes indeed, every word carries nothing less than the very meaning of sincerity.
And yes, indeed, the subject matter is you.
So worry not, when you suggest that I should perhaps let it be known to them.
For I did.
And have.
Yet here I am.
Writing again, the perilless tales of the heart.

Behold the crushing truths of fatal attraction.
I know not why my heart yearns for you as it does, though that which I do know, is this;
You hold wondrousness in your appearance, as though you were the offspring of beauty itself.
And your mind is clearly as addicted to being fulfilled as I find mine to be.
I only wish that all that you are, wasn't all that I am not. For otherwise, you and I would be quite darling, I surmise.
But for what it is worth, please do not refrain from treating my eyes to a show of such unfathomable calibre and rarity.
As you are without question, the very essence of the word delectable.

Despite your attempts at subtlety, darling. I see precisely what you're thinking.
And if I could put lips to lips without harming another, I would do so in a matter of seconds.
I am, as mad as it seems, quite the admirer of your very existence. And once again, I know so little about you, but feel the facade is rather well rehearsed. Please understand, I am well practiced in the area of observation. And with such said, you are the universe, as I am the eye. Stunning to look at, yet so minimally explored.

How could this possibly be, that I find myself once again, tied mercilessly between want and need.
Little does it help that want is as flawless in features, as the day is long, yet need is as fitting as the very shoes of mine that they are so accustomed to walking in.
Want, you are my sin among sins. I crave all that is your beauty, yet helplessly fall by the way side, on my journey to your world.
Need, you are as evident as your name, though I am yet to ever take on board that which I honestly needed.
So let us raise our glasses to the man of the hour, who loathes to be alone, and hates to be accompanied.
The sound of solitude is the same as insanity.