Necrophilia

Fast breathing, when our hands held, our heads stuck together and I'd be told not to stop.

I made sure you'd feel every inch.

You wouldn't make sure I'd feel anything at all.

I did anyway.

So many hopes and expectations that, amongst the flowers and stings, a new flame would burn and a new you would outburst.

As the time passed, my hunger grew faster and I let my heart melt unconsciously, inconsequently, soon to be involved in the spikey branches of Audrey II.

You may name me Seymour; I had built my very own little shop of horrors.

Feeling suffocated and in despair, I ran on to strive for some relief on the mazy corridors of the Le Velvet Art Gallery at St. Mercy's St., no number, so I could get some fresh air on my lungs.

Step after step, shenanigan after shenanigan, I felt unattached and distant, fed up with the ice and complete lack of any attempts to boost up the innermost devices of me.

On that cold night, I was touching the rigid skin of a deceased person.

On that cold night, I felt like a necrophile.

On that cold night, I called it quits.

For the following minutes, hours, days, there was just mess inside my head. My vision was misty. The skies were blurry.

It was time to escape.

On a search for peace and entertainment, I marched southwards, to the silver sea.

In there, I was welcome by the warmest embrace of a good friend, who guided me through the Old City, where the antique meets the modern and the life seems to have bettered up a notch.

Running along the long beachfront sidewalk, I found my to reflect and reassure myself.

I was once again sure of my feelings and what sacrificed it would cost.

There was no doubt inside me.

The sun blessed our way. Turmoil and storm, however, awaited me on the way back home, facing me in the very road that took me back.

After such a delayed return, I found that, whilst I was strolling throughout the East shore, a wall was being constructed, as tall as the Empire State.

I eventually faced it.

It was a fortress.

I knocked on any random brick.

This conversation's over, I heard.

And for the very first time, I realized. It's gone.

No matter how much I punched it, the wall would not even tremble or display any sign of weakness, to my dismay, to my disgrace, to my utter agony.

From instant lovers to enemies. Something had been severed.

As the tension went unbearable, we both decided to part ways, on a decision that, yet again, seemed temporary to me.

And then, the wrong night out, just to get me suffocated.

As the dated 1990s dance beat starts to play, a lover digs deeper into the grave.

Friends become foes.

The "best" is scratched from "best pals".

I didn't quite know what exactly had annoyed me. All I knew is that I was profoundly annoyed for sure.

Inside my chest, silent screams of pain.

And behind that imposing fortress, as enormous as the Great Wall of China, lays the one you love, cold as ice, broken into millions of ice cubes.

You can't keep fighting for it, as your strength is lost. Your dignity is lost. Everything that you believe is lost.

Two halves of a perfect match, broken, unable to patch themselves into unity again.

And as the feeling is drowning in the waters of the storm, I lull myself to sleep in dry tears.

My love is dead. My lover has long deceased.

Even though I never thought I could kiss the dead.

I'm in love with a corpse.