My hip bones ache with loneliness, if you press your ear to my flesh you can hear them weeping.
Thoughts of you and I are dissolving in a vase filled with murky water; the last and only flowers you ever bought me are turning to dust
falling into my mouth, I'm craving any spec of fond memories to soothe my soul.
These hidden messages have gone unseen though; I intricately weave them to my heart,
suffocating the very life, the very weak and staggering beat that is left.
You look at me as though I were a lingering ghost, a haunting that you cannot exorcise from your body, your soul.
My naive thoughts of love have long since suffered a corruption that I cannot reverse or nurse back to health.
Your fingertips were once the conductor of my happiness, my sole reason for existence;
my heart chokes up in my throat at the very thought of my symphony softening my hardened parts - the years of building my fortress.
I still dream of you though; I still love you like the first time I set my eyes upon you;
I still crave your thoughts and reasons, the intriguing way you punish me time and time again; you are still my addiction, love.
These memories can never be undone though; my heart will never flourish and burn with passion or love the way it once did.
The desolate lands that have spread like a July wild fire have left me bleak and hesitant.
My troubled aura has followed me through birth and now death, carrying me through my tasteless afterlife.
Tucking me gently into that bed - my bed of fears.
