Indisputable lack of sleep adorned by the lack of your interest in me
inspires selfmorphing so as to incinerate your sences and then drown
them in a pool of my distorted consciousness. I was pondering the idea
of us and it seems to me so improbable and abstract, no matter how
much I strife to entrance you, maybe because of this huge gap in
time...we met too late, but even this is better than no meeting at
all. And you're so different from anyone else I've met before...you
don't fall for the tragedy I'm capable of or my perfect damsel act, so
you've forced me to be myself around you because you won't have
anything less than my original self.
And so you left one cold dark December morning...too early in the
morning. I was somewhere on the borderline of sleep and delusion and I
pleaded with you not to leave. It's snowing out there now, above
ground, above my frozen bewilderment. I wonder, is it snowing where
you are? Can you stand the blistering cold degrading your skin or the
snowflakes dying of the hopelessness of having met you?
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