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.