When Only Paper Can Save

To my Soulmate

I wish that every time I feel exuberance was because of you.

Moments of shivered and lacerated tiles; 

can't shake the feeling that I'm not the only one woeful.

At nighttide, when I'm most alone, a phantom of calidity warms me.

"I don't believe in fidelity...": I say every hour I devour and write poems that don't seem to agree.

Savorless when it nuzzles my palette,

 yet each stage I record something dire my heart pumps me to stop.

Weep saline tears when I pen about love like it's picturesque;

 body feels the credence and sanity in which amity is nonstop.

Frame wants to put the marbles to rest and let it doze in the promised land.

The idea of fatality and solace crosses my psyche; without fail, I feel a enchanting hand.

Legs, wrists, lungs, and neck are mellowed by a stroke so unexplainable...

I keep stretching it out and not getting to the point, it's inevitable.

The truth is that I can't explain it in intelligible words: 

why, in all my life, when no one was around I didn't feel alone?

It's a type of sentiment that has been bred by tenderness and patches; 

can't help but want more of it, and that's why it creeps me to the bone:

it's a myth that has been scorched like a holy book.

Smoke isn't the homeliness that amour cultivates in the pit of one's stomach nook.

The fact that passion has never been portrayed as immaculate is wonderful.

Every kiss, touch, and feeling done out of yearning drains me like a puncture steadily getting sentimental.

Fixation is so vinegary to me that when it massages my heart it makes my skin want to end.

The pulse of my waxen blood cells doesn't end: a virus is infecting my harns, making it blend with a friend.

Don't believe I was as unwelcoming as a sword that has never been unsheathed.

Young, too young to know what true love is; it wasn't by a lover, but by my grandfather.

Reflections are lost; a dream that leaves your body, you're only able to sense it and not grasp it.

Bliss and immortality sizzle my brain when I sit in that elderly rocking chair, mournfulness is a clasp.

Echos of unlocalized brotherhood and money wanting, eyes sting with all the selfishness.

Verses get longer with each syllable, the truth is that my want for agape is covering up my loneliness.

I know that this poem is nothing more than a sick trap to catch all the fruit flies of love;

the same words you just skimmed through are the lies I keep licking off the spoon, I want to fly like a dove.

"To my Soulmate" was a writing prompt that a teacher made the whole class scribble about.

In sugarcoated words I wrote: "This is a paper wasting thing that we can all live without."

I'm so pathetic: a sensation tenderly started to run down my arm to my composing hand.

Three paragraphs of eight sentences; I wanted to keep counting, the heat in my pours rang.

Dying ocean waves dance on the worn-out canals of my cheeks,  I want to tell the truth about soulmates.

Young, old, colored, white, religious, and all the things that one is, the only thing you should kiss is the hand of the fates.

To me, the term has changed with each negative sentence that comes from my mouth and soul.

Soulmates are so much more than lovers waiting on lands of wishes; they're closer to us, you have been told.

When you have lost the will to love a loved one doesn't say that your nothing and move on without a realization:

the loved one you lost is the angel that will nurture your soul.

When you read this poem, that was a trap for those people who lost love

 and can only feel it in poems,

 I hope you can find your true destination...

This poem is a trap to see if the love of my life is really with me. The heat of a loved one is not always romantic, but magnetic. Thank you all.

Love, CatDia16...