Nothing less than the love that there is.So I surrender, gift you my absence and grant you utter possession of my soul and my living.
I visited that place of death.
It was dark as used to be.
I however didn’t feel the rush this time. ofcourse.
Your make-believe audience were present. They say they grieve for you almost as much too.
The hunching palm trees, remember them ghostly ones? The rustle of them still chill my bones as I take it for your muted footsteps like i did always.
As I nervously laugh now on reminiscence of how much you hated my ubiquitous impulse of a morbid end, I quite contemplate it again standing here by the edge, at my toes.
An arrogantly unceremonious end, I grasp. I stop.
I almost foresee déjà vu; only it is too late for a cliché even.
I see the same galaxy, it’s brighter and the elapsed gaiety warms my heart.
My frail limbs resurrect that time of simultaneous weekdays and perennially broken weekends of forging passion over the coarse, fragmented limestone walls.
It is almost as beautiful as you; the melancholy.
It’s spiteful and solemn. oh, and how.
I plead without no nobility whatsoever now, to end this tempest.
But for the cold-blooded sadist.
Didn’t I always tell you so?
It cast a ghastly shadow of the mortal shape in which death hovered over in deliberate circles.
I was joyous; the thespian slave that I was to succumb to your myth.
So I touched those limestone walls again. To crumble and surrender and overwhelm my spirit like you did.
I desire the feel of the smooth of your skin against mine.
I hunger for the feel of the hollows of your stomach firmly against mine.
I wish for the sickly sweet smell of your breath in mine to linger in me for until the last dawn I see.
I weep beyond coherent reasoning.
Through the length of that ominous space, my vision narrows flinching only to conjure a human figure over that washed out white doors.
I thrust my face now like you did, towards the beckoning melody of the twilight.
Poetic almost, it rhymed like clockwork; your parallel universe crowding mine.
A spiteful piece of art.
Only this time it is a moral eulogy.
Because the death is of the immortal in me.
Unfortunately or otherwise, I still do.