Untitled 2. April 2004.

I never want to look at your past again.
Compassionate sentiments written upon an advance in our history.
Society loves lovers, I love you, lover.
I will never convey this breath again; I will never speak of shrinking stars or shining lights on wet pavement.
I will never speak of metallic blue smoke or metallic blue eyes.
Days and Nights where love seemed to find me.
I can never speak of things I never want to forget.
Things that made me happy, while your past makes you happy.
These scars that you left, I keep veiled from your frosty glances.
Perfection is nonexistent.
When lovers love out of pure sympathy, love is a myth.
When your hand finds mine in the most platonic manner, I never want to speak of being friends first.
When a piece of evidence haunts our psyche like a common memory, I never want to think of aching jaws or wide eyed grins.
When simple phrases spark adoring faces to look towards adoring friends, I never want to think of cloud playgrounds or white wine and cigarettes.
Photographs and novels are only petty dreams from an adolescent.
Philosophers and Artists never made sense, they only made stories.
I tug on these glasses, they’re hard to wear when they’re not your own.
Flipped up collars and dark lenses are my identity.
Hiding from the world is my specialty.
Within a world of lightless demons, that shroud themselves in capes and coffins, and never sleep till 2 hours after sunrise, I was smitten.
Within cold unadorned nights, where we became Deity and discovered thrice was not impossible, I arose an addiction.
Inscribing narcotic sentiments upon pallid, amorous skin.
We discovered our fear of mortality without a paramour.
You value this view, for the same reasons as I.
You valued the stories it lends to the ear.
I balk at the idea of sympathy.
Simply for the fact that it is as endearing to touch lips out of sheer pity as it is to love out of absolute loneliness.
I’m discovering that this is hard to articulate.
I feel as if the beauty of our romantic nostalgia has elapsed.
I seem to no longer be wanted as the heroin of your memories