ph by dev
it was such a strange thing, this love. to breathe or to suffocate, to ignite and to burn, to leap towards heaven or towards hell, i could never conjure up a world to perfect the imperfections. the distant sky whispered nothing. it was cold in my heart, cold, this love, because i was going against myself, against fate, this love. after all, never a shadow he was, although not prominent. he was beautiful, he, the young workaholic man. you could throw him down on a random wasteland and you'd still recognize his melody. he, the young workaholic man, he didn't know how much me and my bones longed for him i had to kiss the rain to imagine the taste of his chilled lips. it was through him all the pleasures in the world should be channeled into me, deep, rooted, against all the force of resistance, the force of gravity. it was through his frail, delicate, beautiful body all the lovers in the world should taste the real meaning of infatuation. he, the young workaholic man, he was forever confused and world-weary.
"this tainted world would never again laugh at me."
