They stole the fire in your eyes that afternoon.
Thrusting their body into yours, to force you to see
pleasure with their eyes.
The cross hanging from the rear view mirror made a violent,
fluctuating movement.
Each angle exerted the perplexity of sinful morality.
You couldn’t do anything but wait for it to be over; wait
for them to be done with you.
Years later.
I’m caught up in a tidal wave of self doubt and coherence of
social norms.
There’s a spark in your eyes but it’s only a momentary
illumination.
I want to reach out and break the boundaries but I can’t.
My one hand is chained to the notions of the past while the
other is tightly attached to the fluidity of the present. My heart grows day by
day and a sense of numbness has developed from this ache of maturity.
Idealistic realism - paradox of life; complexity of
misinterpretation.
I am saddened by what this has become; I can’t stand the
silence of pain.
I can’t bear the fact that they treated you any less than
the meticulous soul of art and life that you are.
I hate that the sorrow is engraved in your being.
I despise the fact that I'm not there to hold your hand,
caress your face and have you in embrace.
I detest this rooted cycle.
This one’s for the moon, this one’s for the stars.
This one’s for you, lover -
Never be afraid of going far.
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