Tuesday, May 17, 2011
I cannot count it, the many hopeless nights when my shadow searched for yours. You thought to punish me, by removing yourself, leaving me filled with this, an insatiable hunger for absolution. I would burn away the world, to feel your lips passionately pressed against mine. And, so, I remain frozen, in footsteps untaken … our footsteps. And I ask myself, was that Dangerous Angel real? Then I feel a familiar ache, the ache of scars unhealed, located on the driest, whitest landscape of that infinite desert called pain. And I tell myself the purpose of scars: to remind me that the past was, indeed, real. I shall not want to languish in that notoriously unending desert.