Verging Desperation

My lovely Edith,

Aforetime the advent of the sacred union that will eternally bound your soul with the man that God has obliged to meticulously cater to your unsatisfied cries, and attend to that swift instance wherein a straddle of your straw-like lock unknowingly attaches to the bristles intertwined with the crevice of your brush — I can only imagine the unaccompanied intervals in between the time, the spacious extent of the mattress from where the tips of your complexion formerly frame down your delicate figure closer to mine.

The undeniable notion of urging regret and solemn of loathing creating in my lower abdomen began to haunt me undesirable daggers of fathoming aches ever since your arms separated from the room between my shoulders. And I continue to long for the solace sensation of your porcelain skin — the deep devotion of my unwinding solitude is longing for you again, my dream of meeting your bare exterior, and be once again worthy to experience the warmth of it again.

Edith, every meeting with the dawn of slumbering sun, I am anguishly pleading, kneeling, grounding the explicitly rough surface of cobblestone, bruising the soles of the base of my toes — when will this miserable life alone end? I cannot live an entire lifetime not to utter even a singular syllable of your name, it is my prayer, a melody I proclaim to a thousand of sparrows, to speak of it is a privilege that would be hastily disregarded from me. I would rather bury a sphere into my heart, as I gaze over the streams of velvety red liquid let the blood crimsoned silk stain itself the symbol of my verging desperation.

My insane despair has taken over me, and yet my intellectual capacity is the only thing other than the tear blemishes splattered on my handkerchief keeping my sanity. My nails gradually wither in a shade of pale dreading yellow as the fingerprints of your long quivering hands last traced the traveling journey across my fingers.


I can never blame my well being. Often I trap myself captivated within the vessel of my own vicinity, as I discover the edges underneath my eyes' epidermis unconsciously streaming, my tears were as lachrymal as my thoughts were, overlapping as the hindering convictions confuse me in a tremendously higher degree. And as I choose to turn against my will to shine upon your reflection one last time, I settled on the vivid resurrections of you instead. I settled on a poet's depiction of the everlasting fondness I felt between the exchanging inclinations of breath thy osculations of our lips — is an apocalypse of a collective reminiscence.



Edith, I will forever consider you as the epitome of my secluded desires,

Elizabeth.