Breaking the iron mold.
Bending the bars of time and experience.
Seeing the scales tip once more
in my favor which brought me to you.
I don't know who you call yourself to be,
I only know what I imagined to be true.
And with that I believe,
My heart can withstand this winter,
if your hand guides my weary eyes.
My dark friend,
I don't understand you,
One body,
Two hearts,
Plenty of lovers,
Too dark,
Too bright,
Never equal,
Darling there is no Orgasm for loneliness.
There is something to be said about shedding tears for a fictional character, especially one you met on a journey between the covers of a book. This relationship is unique, something you intend to hold close as you read, staining the pages with teardrops and chocolate-mucus fingerprints. You'd dye the pages with your own blood if you had to; if only your feelings could transcend a hopeful message to your dearest beloved who is lost among the paragraphs of a dismal world. But that is not how books work. You see, these characters must believe they are alone or hated; they may even be sentenced to death for a good story. And that is why you will never know who is reading yours now, secretly weeping and wholly in love.
