To Dearest,

It is because of you I know the colours of pain,

And the soft melodies of piano,

Strings plucking and lips pressing.

To call you a symphony,

For angelic voices would call blasphemy in its most authentic form.

This time I’ll remember the tears you caused, when joy and sadness were one,

And I’ll remember how we’ve been living and dying for so long now.

Catch my hand before we have to leave again,

Aggression and passion in it, please,

Because maybe entwinement could be long lasting once,

Just for now.

Allow me to tell you what a girl I was,

To write about women and sensitivity,

Craving.

Tell me something,

If our two stories are parallel to one another,

How could we have ever met?

Living doesn’t abide to physics, nor any type of math,

Living abides to only emotion and tragedy.

Dearest, do you ever feel as though your hands are tied?

Rope gnawing away at us,

Until we are scars and velvet all at once.

Skin of leather,

Heart of vulnerability and perseverance,

Lips quivering,

And arms strangling,

Strangling love in a deadly embrace.

To call you my own,

And to call myself yours,

It is simply untrue.

But maybe,

Just once.