All beautiful distractions, ignites from you.

Let the wet earth embrace you firmly, soundly. She needs to be revived, she needs to beat like a heart full of adrenaline inside a chest.

The spirit, my love,is stronger than laughter,stronger than the hungry pantingof reckless lionsthat paw and shuffle underneath the canopy of bowed trees,stronger than the pace of a dying heart, that awaits to be pumped to life by episodes mothered by time,by hands of mankind,by slivers of hopehidden in the common mind.

Unlike the bough that shook off her dead leaves violentlylike a wet terrier,unlike the beating of the butterfly, her wings, against the cocoon, some dreams never made a move.

Why are you so hard on yourself?I love you just the way you are,with your withered coat and wet scarf dangling like a spotless chandelier.The snow banks in Montreal are high, but I can see your trace, and silent grace and tin cup through the paned window.The precipitation melts your face, distorting your expression through the aged glass; broken, when I threw ancient stones to get your attentionas a child.I wanted a friend. The honest kind.

And like nectar inside the bud,my blood drinks from your blood, beloved,and starves to join the salvation in your eyes;to be understood again and again, by your nakedness and certainty, a humbleness that trickles into the crevices of my seasoned mind.

A thousand lips, a thousand eyes,a thousand hearts will read these words,as you read them, graze them, this moment. Thousands will utter them into the abyss, someday, perhaps for years to come; loudly, softly,repeatedly, again and again and again.Some will mock, some will laugh. Somewill shed a tear. But it is writtenonly for your lips, your eyes, your heart,beloved.Do as you please.It is written by an ideal heart,intense, yet free, when in thought of you. Written from a dehydrated pen, thatshed the last drops of her blood,onto you. And still, you do not know me.No, you will never know of this desire.It is a shame, when love cannot love,who she loves, amidst these mortal games. And No. It is for me to know,and for you to close the last pagesof my confessions, making nothing of it.As always, like always,I write for you and for the madnessthat stirs in every soul that has once burned, and for the tender parts of your soul, too.Nothing is hidden, nothing is revealed. The separation between the soul and mate,between lover and the beloved,is through spirit, is it not, my love? Or is it flesh? There, there is the clue.And this, this is the nature of our love. Forbidden,closed, then left ajar in oblivion.My eyes touch your lips, your eyes touch my lips, yet, no one makes a sound. No one moves on.What madness is this?And here you go, turning the pages now, there you go.

A thousand lips, a thousand eyes,a thousand hearts will read these words,as you read them, graze them, this moment. Thousands will utter them into the abyss, someday, perhaps for years to come; loudly, softly,repeatedly, again and again and again.Some will mock, some will laugh. Somewill shed a tear. But it is writtenonly for your lips, your eyes, your heart,beloved.Do as you please.It is written by an ideal heart,intense, yet free, when in thought of you. Written from a dehydrated pen that shed the last drops of her blood,onto you. And still, you do not know me.