ɪɴᴜʀᴇ [ᴘᴏᴇᴛʀʏ]

xɪɪ. ʟᴏᴠᴇʀꜱ' ꜱᴜɪᴄɪᴅᴇ

Hopeless romantics write no sonnets, but
I've nurtured this feeling into a lovable nuisance.
I found you in the silence, hushed you to sleep with compulsive lullabies and
massaged your shoulders when loved ones

set off towards Heaven—must be a distant land, you wondered, for
none returned. Perhaps none ever loved you to return.
But I love you; I've loved you through health and sickness, love and cherish your
reluctant acceptance that we have been made for each other. Soulmates.

I've given you crimson chains and bound you to iron cuffs, sweet with intimate discipline.
I love the real you—the Human. Yet, you think
yourself unworthy of being considered a Human. Why? Are others' opinions more important than mine?
They don't love you.

I love you.
Die for me in a lovers' suicide.