Your lips are fields of wild poppies. Your sighs are the electric winds that wander the Galaxy. Your words the loveliest of Phantoms, these haunting romantic Spirits reliving their deaths, eternally within my mind. Your touch is the kindred of the Sun, infinitely warm and promising the purest nectar of youth. This Earth, and life that flows within us, is the eternal fount that which so many search for. It is the vitality of your faithful eyes that breaks my jaded heart. Had I been young and innocent I might have believed you. I feel so robbed of that newly blossomed love. The love of newborns. The worship of the naive. We talk of the willing corruption of spirit. These envious spirits also corrupted by stolen innocence. I feel so the quietness of outerspace like the terrifying awe and reverence of something too vast to fathom. I feel the stretched limitations of understanding like strings ready to snap in the heart of my mind. I feel the vibrant binds of my morality. I feel the waste of my ungratefulness and I hate myself for my impatience with you. You are all that is divine. Most of all, I feel such cold desperate despair. No God would deny you, Dear One. Nothing of purity or absolute beauty would turn from you. Not as I turn from you in shame or jealousy. You are the blessed and sweet dew of every fresh morning known to be. I find such necessity in you. The parts of me never born and short lived, cut down in their prime. The rejuvenation of spirit, such inspiration dances in your eyes, waiting to be known and admired. The great master of being perfected you and every moment of you gone unknown, unobserved, and unappreciated is a travesty made sacrilegious. So I become foolish and build my worship around you. All my alters of self are built with you in intent. I whisper your name upon tree blown winds with mystic certainty. I cast spells in your tongue like they are blessings. I cannot be denied nor accepted. Neither great spirit nor humble mortal, I am the aimless meanderer. I am the fraughtful halfling. You are so whole, I can feel the caress of the cresting sunrise. I begin to sigh, a sigh of the rapturous moans of mercy. I was not fond of summer before you. Now I feel it’s absence in every season other. I don’t wish to be parted from summer any longer. The longing seizes an ache from me that is unquenchable until you slake it. Tell me, does the summer pity those who dwell in winter’s wake? Does summer yearn? Does it yet have any inking as to my suffering for it? Tell me, for if it’s known, it is not a hardship at all. If has gone unmarked, unacknowledged, unfathomed even, then it is an unbearable wound; that in my loneliness, my self pity consumes. An unslakeble barbarian ruthless, unforgiving, and self destructive in it’s hunger for validation. I appeal to it. Great beautious beast look upon the light! Feel the perpetual sensations of abundance! Ravage and be hungry no more! Seek not. All is upon you. That perfect interchangeable energy that you so sought, it slumber within awaiting, for you to awaken from winter’s hibernation. Leave behind the taunting of spring and taste the mature love of summer, with wet sex intoxicating and wondrous. I sobbed to you, the wisdom of your sunbeams dried the secretion of my moist words from my cheeks; with the gentle caress of laughter.
-How did you know?