To no one

   

I love you. My reasons are of no importance, and hold no solid reality. It is a carefully structured madness that I am haunted by too often; a breath of lips unknown to my tormented flesh, the soft echoing of a foreign heart sighing to mine. What can it possibly offer to such tender shadows, to something so living?



    I often forget I am something that can be loved, that I can perhaps spread my mouth so effortlessly with a joy that is as foreign as your lips have always been, and be beautiful. To be fleshless, shimmering a red that is not for the sake of sorrow, but liberation of it. To touch eternity with a hand that is worthy of your light.





        Disregard this selfish rebirthing; it is impossible to compete with the dead.