you speak. you speak and my god, you speak the language of springtime chrysanthemums – blooming; lavish with color. i ask the tangerine sunset how someone so dead can breathe life like air. how, in all your sun kissed glory, can you appear so animatedly existent when in verisimilitude you are the equivalent of cadaverous autumn leaves.
THE NORTH WIND CANNOT RIVAL YOUR COLD, WITHERING HEART.
my darling, you are dead. and your eyes compel me to follow.
