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.