Working now under the filtered gaze of dying sun-light, I wonder if anybody is yearning as I yearn -at this exact moment. I ponder if my suffering-in this brief moment- moves a hair or rattles the bones of anyone. Does the churning of my insatiability affect even the movement of shadows that bathe me? Am I so secluded in this plaintive soul-searching that I cannot whisper any prose that will make my meaning known? Am I so cryptic, that my heart will beat forever beneath walls of plaster? Can you hear me now, my erratic song? Can you touch the gaudy hem of my visceral sorrow? I am afraid not. I am sorry to say that I'll always love you from a distance, always scribble ill-conceived bromides in the guest book of your indifference, always plant the flowers that another hand will harvest. How do I speak to you, shadow, whisp, restless oasis, when ever I perish in ill-timed storms and sleep-statuesque- buried in sand? Restless bones cannot stroll with victors in Valhalla, cannot manage to swim soul-choked rivers, cannot light incense to Marlboro gods, soaked in the sweat of their kill.
I wish my words would choke in my throat so that I could speak louder through your lips. Honey, I wish that your gaze fluttered against the contours of my gaunt eyes, razor chin. I wish that you would read these words and understand; understand that I'll never really know you.
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