drawn in by hope and quartered by waiting, i lie in pieces dreaming of being made whole again.
absence not only makes the dull boy and his heart wonder, but bedazzled and bemused it makes wonder boy so confused he wanders aimlessly in the field of forsaken possibilities, futilely attempting to lie still in an attempt to avoid being sucked into the abyss of hypothetical what ifs?
knowing that suffering is a lesson to the wise is no consolation for the foolish. pain never felt good in any way, so why should i boldly say i accept this heart aching? for i'm not just any indifferent savage who moves from one pillage to the next, plundering love without a twitch or a moment to question amorous intentions. no, the sad-sad truth is—sorry-sap am i.
so, albeit i may not die here of this unforgiving wanton desire, i am still compelled to stoke the fire of these melancholic embers, if only haplessly remembering what once was.
the art of love
l.m