"It was the lack of Earth in your tone;
the way the Sunlight dimmed when you spoke;
The idleness of your Soul;
your ability to warm up the heart,
absent the intention to keep it so.
Your corrosive tongue, envious that your eyes better convey a willingness to Love, undone.
You were the thin line between disease and decency.
The paragon of an unsung Love song;
parasitic pessimist, envy this:
The manifest of glow burrowing my Soul.
Pain lives here
The Mourning After, by The Expressionist.