Yes, I'm a selfish bastard.
I want every incandescent crumble of yours to be dipped in the glowing paint of my own tint. I don't care if duskiness has no tint at all, I'd paint you in transparent colors visible only to my hues. That air isn't yours to breathe, I'm the only oxygen to provide the chambers of your lungs their resonant vividness. I'm aware of your wings, you contumacious bird and I'm nothing but a defamatory cage of dalliance. You fly to the furthest sky of my mind, you reach the most heavenly thoughts on a daily basis. And when my loneliness gathers its clouds to rain, I shoot you down to the deepest hell of my wrath.
Yes, I want you to be all mine, while I'm not even halfway yours.
I don't despise you—not as much as the mere fact of you daring to conflate me with your absence, you ungrateful creature of pure fatuousness. I loathe the foreign hands that roam your temple churlishly. What's there to worship in an ungodly assemblage of invidious shattered pieces like you? And I'd peel the crust of my skin, knit it to a coat of warmth just for that leather to taste yours—no, even scald it with the repetitive signature of my name. Oh, but you'd rather encompass yourself with beguiling fetching masks than the authenticity of my hideousness.
For that, I say I'd fall asleep to the cracking sound of every spine you electrified with shivers of your inculcation. That click, click, fucking click; such soothing lullabies. However, when it came to me, my whole nervous system was on fire while meters stood between us to mock my enfeeblement. The enervating sovereign of your soul was my fragile defense to the jury of my pride. I'm not waiting any longer, not for you or your replacement. I know I'll keep ambling on the shreds of our memories nonetheless, for I admire the look of my feet in crimson liquor.
But you, you're no longer my love.
You became my lost sanity.
And now, I'm only a mad man.
