The light shines off you,
you opalescent devil,
you chip of plasma seaglass,
you star’s shard.
Floating deep under water,
the ocean of my thoughts
drown you in false hope.
How strange it feels
to see such a contradiction
of chaotic beauty and a
foggy window of a heart,
waiting in a line behind
decaying dreamers.

How strange it tastes
to have the words
‘I love you’, ‘marry me’,
and ‘you are flawless’
slip down my throat
as you leave me cold,
carrying your meadows
of lanterns and
salmon-flowered birch trees
away with you,
away to someone else
you neither love nor care for.

You fall in love, you say,
once every seven years,
which terrifies me beyond belief,
as I fall in love
so often, and out of love
so quickly, but you,
you poison coated platinum chalice,
seem to have captured me.

The glory you emit
while waltzing halls,
mask hiding the devil
like a glamour unneeded,
attracts dozens, hundreds,
armies of admirers that seek
your heart for theirs,
and I, holding my own out
with outstretched arms,
am one of them.

Do not blame me,
you heaven-teared catastrophe,
for loving you
with the little stone heart
I have,
for it has grown wings
and a liking to your eyes,
and your voice,
and your frozen breaths
that seize all you feel them
with feelings of faint.

Nothing more I’d like to say
than that I love you,
nothing more I’d like to see
than your shining cheeks,
nothing more I’d like to taste
than an everlasting conversation
about absolutely everything,
my soul on your lips
and vice versa, though
lies may slip through
on suttle occasions.

The Glamour, truly,
fails to conceal your stunning self.