Unnamed

Writers and artists can grant life; without an ending. Only to those that their passions flare with truth; with a sweltering flame; a breath exhaled by ancient beast; the greatest gift and the most tiresome of burdens. Some I have granted immortality without even the knowledge of my affection; for those few I have willingly adored; openly and free; love takes them beyond their god self; beyond immortality; beyond everything and beyond nothing. The places I hide away my heart; a treasure hunt without a map for reference; only my subtly and proposed or perhaps beseeched intuition to guide towards; each fragmented segment; each obsure pieceof a puzzle with no corners. Fragments I call them; parts that cause too much strain; parts of my heart too exhausting to keep together by my self. Called cold; or heartless in the past; when a dense mass of love has been expected; when my adoration is different; a landscape spanning opulent for miles; a colour unseen; not for lack of spectrum but for lack of willingness ~to see. I am here; geographically placed; Searching for the subtle remembrance of the sound of his heartbeat under my comforter and between my tangled bed sheets. Quiet in …

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