What I didn’t die for, was what I lived for.
Though, who I loved perhaps caught my attention enough to want to lay to rest myself in her arms, and never awaken.
There were lies caught in her hair. I had to remove them.
There was pain so golden that she held upon, in a hand with thinnest fingers. I sought to take that hand with the widest rope, and strap herself to me. I sought to carry what I found to my room for love-making.
A beauty who held herself upon wings as cold as the water beneath my eyes. It was when I did not know her, that I was dead. Though, when I loved her, that was when I was revived.
Life holds no trumpets for the wedding to begin. Love has bracelets, and love has rings. Life is merely the pyre to burn the dead.
“Don’t come so close,” I once said to her, because I thought she would burn against me.
So loose in the eyes of her, I was a miracle for her, in her woes. No longer, when I shifted my position in life to her, that she ever cried. Hope sprung up. Love lifted her on wings as hot as the iron for her hair, and the lips that were pressed against mine.
Though, were they?
Lips so wanted by me. Lips so needed by me. I wanted a vision of paradise to my eyes. I wanted warmth. And so, I ask again what kind of life is dead, while alive? And, what death is ever starved of life? I was the former, while she was the latter.