Writers and artists can grant life; without an ending. Only to those that their passions flare with truth; with a sweltering flame; a breath exhaled by ancient beast; the greatest gift and the most tiresome of burdens.
Some I have granted immortality without even the knowledge of my affection; for those few I have willingly adored; openly and free; love takes them beyond their god self; beyond immortality; beyond everything and beyond nothing.
The places I hide away my heart;
a treasure hunt without a map for reference; only my subtly and proposed or perhaps beseeched intuition to guide towards;
each fragmented segment; each obsure piece
of a puzzle with no corners.
Fragments I call them; parts that cause too much strain; parts of my heart too exhausting to keep together by my self.
Called cold; or heartless in the past; when a dense mass of love has been expected; when my adoration is different;
a landscape spanning opulent for miles; a colour unseen; not for lack of spectrum but for lack of willingness
I am here; geographically placed;
Searching for the subtle remembrance of the sound of his heartbeat under my comforter
and between my tangled
bed sheets. Quiet in my longing; for search implies weakness in the eyes
of my foolish swollen ego.
Penetrating words, pared with permeating silence
misshapen insecurities; adorn and bring out the mischievousness in my one eye;
I know better than anyone; that these neurosis
are my most fabulous accessory.