There is a face that I occasionally come to kiss, even in the dark of night. When torment has been my medicine, from a bottle that I drink to sink pain beneath my chest, I think only of her.
I think only of a woman, who has blackest hair, and darkest eyes.
I think of my failings, my undoings, or any small inaction that I form into the guilt of a man committing murder. I am dramatic by my heart, and fallen by my mind. My mind thinks, and it ponders while it wanders, because guilt has been my necessity. I love with a powerful love. I crave the burn, the sensation that drives me to thrill.
She has embodied that.
The burn, that is, and her form is a chaotic form, of bruised flesh that I have been aiming to make wholeness; for I would offer pleasure, and more-so the love. Her face is what I have found, to be desirous for my many kisses. I have found all of love in her, in its greatest definition conceived by me. Oh, love! It is an emotion, alike a fire, a conflagration, to burn my sins so that it is all I witness.
She is the beauty, and the task to which I devote my time. She is the woman of sentiment, and no photographs would I burn.
For the thrill of love, I commit myself to madness, to sadness, and to gladness; and I adore each sensation, clung upon them like a man I am, with claws, like upon skin that would not tear.
I see her eyes swimming in tears. I am devoted and loyal. I do not worship, but remain at a distance to see the ocean that show whatever loneliness is left to purge. And I cross them, and throw the water aside.
I see tears, and I swipe them away. I see the moon folding its pallid hues over herself, and I collapse the moon. I see the sun offering a greater love than myself, and I destroy the sun. I want no sadness for herself, though for me, for I will grow terrible to thwart away the disease called “distraction”. No sadness, and no misery, for herself.
I will love, and I will love, and I will love.