The issue is a common one, prevalent and continual in my mind. How do I address it being so? Never having been more attached to a soul in my life, it seems the words would come with ease. And maybe it's cause she is here now, resting upon my breast, nothing except cherubic to me. Her breathes are short and unnoticed, irrelevant when it comes to that stare, eyes deeper than any man has grasped. This benevolent beast blessing me beyond all that she or I will ever know.
And I know it won't last forever, for forever is only written in the skies, the landscapes of our dreams, and the wishes of our forefathers.
We exist to dream this highway, to live in the pristine world of our neighbor, where the warmth through the window is sufficient enough to see our own breath. Where our stories bring the most solace, though we always yearn to be a part of theirs. And isn't this the case for all of life, wanting appreciation for our shortcomings while admiring the great downfall of Billy Blake... How can we achieve anything if we don't continually reiterate what once was and all we've lost? Can our existence be anything but pecuniary if we never recognize the past?
So here she breathes on my earlobe, unaware of all I hope and fear. Could she remain indifferent, were she made cognizant of humanity and my atrocities?
I can't imagine she would change a bit.
