Thursday, September 15, 2011

Thorns.

The truth remains that I think of you
too often than I wish to admit.
This involuntary infatuation
which I'd rather you not envision.
I would fare so much better
if to me you don't always matter.

I am collateral damage in the vicissitudes
of your admirers, which you have in multitudes.
I never intended be quite so weak
believe me, this emotional paralysis is torture.
This infallible seduction I suffer
is my own folly.

Unconsciously, thoughts of you pervade
even my quietest reveries.
Unintentionally, imaginary dialouges with you
overtake me in my moments of inattention.
What madness such sweetness
brings me, only the lovesick could perceive.

I am not in love with you
or am I in love with the idea of you.
This incomprehensible fixation I have for you
is in all probability a by-product
of sheer lonely delirium.
Loving you would have been much easier.

I end this with an anecdote:
In my dreams you come to me as a Rose.
Blood red, thorned and intoxicating.
I grasp you and I cut myself
I inhale your poison and lose myself
Yet I do not desist for I fear nothingness.

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