Melancholy

 

I know you are here. Somehow I have always known, now merely very aware of your tormenting presence. A very real conviction that you are the one thing that will exist, even if everything else I know were to prove a vivid hallucination of a very sick mind.

You are a reflection against a solid reef, a thing of soothing disquiet, something which should not exist by natural law. An Abhorrence, a thing of godlessness, of abandonment of faith.

Right there, in my throat, your presence haunting every aspect of what I am. A tiny etching onto me, a cursed, festering wound that refuses to heal up or even go a little numb. A forgotten sensation like an old lover’s warmth, every part of me and still the bane of my existence.

Like a piece of me missing, and something more still, which completes me, leaving me worse than what I was incomplete.

Yet you are not a thing of evil, for I wish beyond anything for you to be that.

Sweet melancholy: a creation of passion, of lust, of rawness of humanity, of beauty, of such utmost, such terrible beauty.

The beauty of dying rose tore off and left to wither so very slowly. The world’s slowest death sentence, so painfully and elaborately adorned.  Mellifluous aroma of loitering death that is somehow so very succulent.

The tiny tinge of sadness at end of every smile every smiled.

Of the sparkle in the eyes of the one you love, still there as life leaves them and a twisted smile creeps up at the edge of their lips. Nightshade, a kiss of death.
Of beauty you are it stems from you… and you claim with me with every breath I take, as I give into your cold grip, so very willingly.

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