He came back last night.
From is darkness, and pain.
His soul, so confined. His heart still oozing blackened blood.
Deep within his soul, I can feel his hurt and torment.
But I don't ask. He turns the lights out, and locks the door.
Broken home, broken bones.
Though he never told anyone but me.
Still, everything, it all seems so make believe.
But, oh how his hurt breaks my own heart.
I weep for him, at night.
Alone, so alone, I cry for him. I cry for his happiness and joy.
I cry that it is me that will ever give it to him.
My love for him resembles the eternal rocks beaneath.
He's always, always in my mind.
Not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself,
but as my own being.
He is a part of me in no other way anything else can ever be.
The blood in my viens, the air in my lungs, the tender heart that is beating so slow.
But, oh he is much too wonderful for me.
As I am a small tree, he is the entire forest.
I do not deserve him, I know.
He is wonderful, and brilliant, and talented, and mysterious.
Too good to be true, I suppose.
Perhaps, he is a figure of my own wild imagination.
A character so real and vivid, as though I have read him straight from a book.
But he is real. In every aspect.
Through the body and flesh, I can touch and kiss and hold him in my weakened arms.
His beauty and grace, it is all so overwhelming.
I am in so deep, you see.
Swimming in an ocean of wonder and mystery and pain.
I cry for help, a ship to pull me back to shore.
But everything has yeilded towards me.
I am already dead and gone.
Buried in a love so strong and powerful only God himself can pull me from it.
Because misery, and degradation and death, and nothing that Satan could inflict upon us, would part me from him.
Oh, I don't care if he doesn't love me anymore.
It is much too obvious he shouldn't.
I don't need him to love me any more than I need the pencil I brought to school with me yesterday morning.
But I can't bear the thought of him loving someone else.
Anyone else, but me.