I Like To Know That I've Maimed You. Is It Sadistic Of Me To Like The Thought Of You Wondering Where

There is so much I could possibly do, what a terrible tragedy I am not immortal. What a beseechingly mortal remark, but I don’t suppose I would like to live forever, just enough.

if I wanted to feel the choke, I'd just ask the plants I always fail to grow. Their corpses still fail to create what I knowingly try to drown, is that why we flatlined, the moment you dared to turn around?

hold on babes, lemme just put on my rose-tinted glasses to excuse all that you do or say

And speaking the ancient tongue is like reaching out and having a chat with history itself, shadows and shimmers of unspoken words bound by time, now escaping through the curve of your lips.

Don't kiss me yet,

Let our minds wander first, together,

Let our souls touch,

And then perhaps,

I will love you too.

I promised I'd start journaling next year, this year i mean, that I'd fight the urge to cut my hair, I'd fight the impulse to stare for far too long down the road, lying with the time ticking in reverse unable to quite picture how you'd laugh, that I'd stop numbing the ache by forgoing to muse, stop craving the cough syrup, stop biting my nails, learn a new language by the time I'd have to wish you, so that my smile for once wouldn't be brave, my typing not repeatedly erased, I'd promised to stop loving you the very day, the clock hit today,

Does he love the stars?

Maybe he'll love you like he loves the stars. Maybe he tells the stars about you like how he tells you about the stars. Maybe he'll remember every scar and freckle like he remembers the names of those supernovas thousands of light years away.

nothing ever feels the same. that is the horrible cliche everbody hears, and years down the road they realize, huh, the pain stopped. but the road, the road, what of it? you wake up every morning, for 7 consecutive sundays and realize, oh it's stopped, has it stopped? the eighth sunday is however bad, you wakeup with a picture of how his head would rest right on top of yours. and just like that, it's back to square one.

How pitiful it must be to be god don’t you think? A ray of sunshine or a dirtied tile of hope? What is more utterly dehumanizing than being kept alive through desires? Doesn’t that make god a woman? Your lovely creatures, whom you created to love, when in reality they are but your hopes, not you theirs, what else will keep you immortal? No, I believe you were human once, and I believe immortality is the greatest curse, because this is what you end up as. A concept that cannot touch, an entity that cannot feel, the saint who cannot learn, a barren figment of what it is to be without curiosity. Wouldn’t you like to be free from it? But then again, if you’re cursed with knowing what is left for us after death, what is left for you?

was it a sin to love you in our last lifetime my love, for which I am atoning for in this one?