What is it about love that makes it so impossible to bear?
The weakness that lies in these hidden walls of comittment that seems to make there own prison by never telling a word of truth or not telling at all.
Have I said to much or nothing at all to the one I am to give myself so willingly and with out the confession to my heart, have I then send those demons far away or do they lay in me head hiding from the light, lurking in the dark telling me to forsaken the mind and live blinded in my sin
To never tell the secret of the body that burns of desire for all living things in motion.
The sheets of my bed are marked by his footstep and do not wish to go away.
Under my covers where you make me feel , under your covers where you make me real.
Dose his breath weaken as the days go by? Have my linger strokes fallen to point of being forgotten. Or dose he remember the way I stroke his forehead into sleep and curved his hair away from his face, dose he sleep with his face against the wall still or is it filled with roses and sweet smell of flowers that warm his thoughts of days to come.
Has he succeeded in the art of imitation of life and has he reached the place where his heart is no longer the prison of inhaling dreamless dreams.
Do I regret the unsaid, the tango of two, and the eyes of you.
Were ever you may be, who ever you might be the far well has deserted me.
Since these are the last breath of you, when life offers you a chance to live, never regret having it.