Death My Love.
Limerence, fantasy, daydreams, lingering sensations around me.
You are not hrer. Logic tells me why.
But you are here. You are my death connection. If you were alive. In my timeline. As your own. You would not be well for me. But you are away. Silent. Heavily influential. Your death I make beauty out of. Your memory is spoken ill of; maybe you were ill. But you are in my depth, a dark beauty surrounded by your flaws; you've accepted them, maybe to give your character complexity. My first death was beautiful. It was orchestrated with a poetic sentiment by yours truly. Two white roses as the symbol of our dying love. The runaway lover off on the train. I left you plainly, just as you allowed me to cry, cradling me, walking with me in the light of the early morning, carrying me. Twisted my liver. Aches are the remembrance of words that never were to be said but clawed to get out of my soul, tearing my voice. Presss on me. The death of the angel followed. My beautiful b o y. Our embodiment couldn't touch purity, but we were of its intentions at some point. A trail separated. Tickled me to have death enter within me, stretch inside me before blowing its kiss of destruction. But we will be soft, right? We will say nice words at the wake. I think we did well. Bitter goodbye. By the next time, my god of music came, he tip-tapped his toes on the edge of my nerves, pressuring-force. You do well to serve your interests. Carried you to death. Patience. We must leave together. So we did, in delay, in absolution. No more growth? Teach me no more. Walk away, to catch the next train. Music detached from god that day. Suddenly the sounds of love couldn't love in the presence of your sound of voice. Death was easy, prepared for. Death my love, you are death of a human form to transcend; I may love you again in this form. Swirl me in ideas to express the memory of you. Provoke me. Do not speak of the ded. But speak to me in my mind, in the yearning for more. Where my spirit becomes sexual. I sex you through my art instead of my mind after the passing. Twisted sense of love, my late night poison. I seek you in the abyss; I find your footsteps to walk old paths; I taste you in music; I see the words once spoken by the beloved plastered over the prospects of future plans I invent. Lover are you that beautiful. Are you that perf, to nerf me and it still be so perfectly aligned. Sex me to a primal state. Primed in time, unfolding, you are still there, translated from lost to art. Death saved my lover. God knew it was the only way to love therm.
[Death my love is better than asking you to kill my love. You are death, your name summoned the end.]
(Disclaimer: This is a form of fragmented, lyrical prose poetry. The apparent misspellings are intentional stylistic choices. Certain words are written phonetically, to be part of the expressive language of the piece.)
