I could feel it stir,
Arousing from a deep sleep outside time,
lingering in the shadows,
Shying away from the naked light,
Throbbing in sync with my melodramatic heart,
Almost ripping the fabric of my skin.
I could feel it pounding the surface of my soul,
Creating sharp percussions which embraced my subconscious mind.
Your passion provided vitality,
Engulfing me in ecstasies of false immortality.
Your tenderness pacified my storm of emotional volatility,
Giving me my first taste of forbidden liberty.
Our love was nostalgic, not for familiar territory,
But it was a bittersweet yearning for the uncharted unknown.
In the fiery blaze of what we called love,
We burned down the bridges of deity.
It was swift and daring.
Fortune favoured the bold.
Unfortunately, the reality was untold.
In sooth, we are just a preternatural phantom.
Now when I look into your eyes,
I see a void overwhelmed with shameless lust.
I cannot recognise that which I once called home.
I bury my anguish in the thrill of the moment,
Then later seek refuge in faceless havens,
Desperate to escape the agonising reality of what I have become.
It’s all pointless,
Like tears in the rain.
It’s also endless,
Like the spectrum of our beloved rainbow,
The relic of a God who once drowned our perverse forefathers.
When I look into the mirror,
You always gaze back.
Why won’t you look away?
Do you not see the weariness etched in my desire?
Nonetheless, reflections have a popular problem.
They almost always show us the truth.