Laid out on the table, breathless wife of mine. Over years Ive kept this short of bay. In the absence Im swept far beyond reality. In our world Ive made my stay.
Ive taken to my fists the rings we bound our hearts with, there to keep for always late. Ive clothed her in her darkest fabrics, black on black, her brightest shade. Over kisses, over tears, I spare a sound dejection of hopelessness left hurting me. As the hours fade me, as the gears keep holding, I speak the words she couldnt hear. There to pry me closer, every stitch I deal her, every metal barb to seal her pain. These withered shoes I gave her, victorian lace, placed upon her for display. Floral print of daisy petals, black brocade of silk and lace, these gloves are ones I made. Her over dress bears fitting seams, long chaffon cuffs lightly frayed, silver buttons to the collar, velvet lining just an inch below her jaw. Her under dress a shade above that, dark, yet still the complimentary hue. Covered buttons remain hidden, lower half a thick, intricate design of woven grace. I pinned her hair back to a bun, pointed the long ends out the top, left her bangs to feel her face. Black, the darkest, thick eye liner. Blue, the darkest, hard eye shadow. Black, the deepest lip accent with a kiss to charm my vengeful glaive.
Here she rests, my suspended angel. Here I stand, I close my days. Every minute passing waste, every hour left ignored. All for nothing, here I stay. Now what does it matter? As she was my left leg. My voice and power. Love and luster. All of it now motionless inside a cloud adrift, now memories of which I replay. To this it came, I knew it to be unaviodable. Her time, my sentence, known before its call. And though her minute, my forever, could be equalized by one red pill, I reject the tempt just to prove how much I would endure to say I love her in a way that only a spirit could see. Now and forever, our essence joined in the dandelion field lost in the mirth of play.
Ive taken to my fists the rings we bound our hearts with, there to keep for always late. Ive clothed her in her darkest fabrics, black on black, her brightest shade. Over kisses, over tears, I spare a sound dejection of hopelessness left hurting me. As the hours fade me, as the gears keep holding, I speak the words she couldnt hear. There to pry me closer, every stitch I deal her, every metal barb to seal her pain. These withered shoes I gave her, victorian lace, placed upon her for display. Floral print of daisy petals, black brocade of silk and lace, these gloves are ones I made. Her over dress bears fitting seams, long chaffon cuffs lightly frayed, silver buttons to the collar, velvet lining just an inch below her jaw. Her under dress a shade above that, dark, yet still the complimentary hue. Covered buttons remain hidden, lower half a thick, intricate design of woven grace. I pinned her hair back to a bun, pointed the long ends out the top, left her bangs to feel her face. Black, the darkest, thick eye liner. Blue, the darkest, hard eye shadow. Black, the deepest lip accent with a kiss to charm my vengeful glaive.
Here she rests, my suspended angel. Here I stand, I close my days. Every minute passing waste, every hour left ignored. All for nothing, here I stay. Now what does it matter? As she was my left leg. My voice and power. Love and luster. All of it now motionless inside a cloud adrift, now memories of which I replay. To this it came, I knew it to be unaviodable. Her time, my sentence, known before its call. And though her minute, my forever, could be equalized by one red pill, I reject the tempt just to prove how much I would endure to say I love her in a way that only a spirit could see. Now and forever, our essence joined in the dandelion field lost in the mirth of play.
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it's all circumstantial