I will always be in love with her
In such a way that I cannot, and will not, replicate for another.
This truth has been a thought that has both haunted and comforted me
For a long time now; a conclusion that was made by my sadomasochistic subconscious
More than a decade ago, laced with treacherous hope and blind uncertainty -
A truth absent of any sort of desired catharsis.
By day I am consumed by thoughts of her,
And come night, I am engulfed by same,
Relishing in the solace, however compelled to endure
The heartache that follows if it means she feels close to me again.
An artist tortured by her demons, she paints the world in darkened colors,
A beautifully somber array of emotions released into the Aether
To be seen and praised by mortals, directly from the fingertips of a deity who suffers
But finds a form of comfort within their poetic portrait.
I have attempted, and failed, to supress these feelings numerous times,
Berating myself for harboring more than I should,
Attempting to persuade myself that they are no longer alive
And yet, they continue to envelope me, mocking me as if they are something to be withstood.
Many a year ago, she left her burning seal upon my soul -
A kiss, a love, that dotingly torments my memory in the most savage way,
Something so fleeting, though a lavishly stained loss of control,
Littering a shattered being with beauty, chaos, and favorable dismay.
