Why must you insist on wearing such lovely suits and styling your hair so? I know you only do it to tempt my sinner’s soul, the devil that you are. But, would it not be more pleasurable to dispense with these plodding feints and instead engage our blades in a more manly game?
I would give you a crocheted rose to place in your breast pocket, and it would be so sharp as to prick your soul and let it pour out of your heart, gush through your ribs and mingle with mine own, which is already outpoured. I would you touch my hand - even the lightest touch, lighter than an angel’s whisper - would send sinful tremors to rattle the base of my being and upturn and unfound the once-thought-strong pillars of my mind. I would a thousand sweet words drip in your ear as we lie cradling each other in a fortress of linens safe from the whirling burly outside.
I would these things and a thousand more. But.
I sit a place thousand and more apart from you. We, two stars on a parallel course fated to never cross, but I suffer the greatest - for I see your light and long for it upon my face - while you greedily bask in your own holy light, ignorant of those shining basely around you.