Still, my heart writes letters to her in the wee hours when emptiness pervades and the longing of the soul does not go away. The last words memories replay are, I love you. Please stay.
With longing, I wept for her — and I waited;
But my dreams of love would never come true,
Only pieces of shattered hope and sorrow unabated.
In the stillness of the quiet hours, a transcendent peace falls upon her.
Her heart was once coldly broken, but now she flourishes in the warmth of healing.
To breathe, she thought she needed him and wept at the thought of never seeing him again,
But her pain turned out to be heaven’s blessing, because she reclaimed her true essence,
and in her discovery, she found that she was exceedingly strong and deeply loving.
She also ascertained, that truly loving herself was the key to being strengthened;
Beautifully, she closes her eyes in her own embrace — the light of her spirit
Wonderfully exuding through the ethereal radiance of her face.
She is gorgeous in her nakedness with an aura that could never be erased.
To have her love, is to have a gift that could never be replaced;
She is light. She is loved. She is safe. Always.
Still, I search for lost parts of my heart that many lovers kept;
But I didn’t know I was so deeply wounded until I was near death
When true love left, and in darkness I sorely wept.
Kiss me passionately, and revive my broken heart, my angel.
It was after three seasons of unhappiness that I had to let go.
Instead of exuberance and intimacy, there was sorrow;
Instead of loyalty and love, there was deep betrayal.
Hold me in your warmth my angel, and give my heart
A reason to mend and in love, to be made whole again.
Whisper beautiful things to me in the wonder of the twilight,
And show me true love, to bring my soul back to life.
It is the ones we love deeply that blind us.
In the time of heartbreak and weeping,
We pray that true love will find us.
It is the long trail of ignored subtleties
That always come back to haunt us.
In the coldness of betrayal and loneliness,
Beautiful promises previously whispered are worthless.
The days and nights of sacrifice,
And in-depth talks of hopes for the future become fruitless.
Sometimes anguish can turn the once loving and affectionate,
Into the dispassionate and ruthless.
When love is no more, the viciousness of words
is the the weapon that cuts to the core;
all that is left are melancholic whispers, and thoughts of regret.
Years of unhappiness is a slow death,
culminating in the gasping of air in final breaths—
from deep wounds, the soul is disfigured,
and the heart relinquishes passionate feelings in its relent.
There are no goodbye kisses or last intimate experiences;
after the last screams, hatred rises to the surface,
and tears are shed in stagnant silence.
The door closes, and the first night of loneliness
brings more melancholia and darkness.
In an empty dwelling, after it finally sets in,
reality is cruel in its starkness.
Because of my faults and afflictions, do not shun me;
through loving eyes look upon me and truly see the makings of my depths.
Hear the beauty of my utterances through anguished breaths;
In my weariness, hold me in warm caress, and immerse me in your tenderness.
Had I not tasted of love, I would not have known of its healing effects;
do not turn away from me lest I am shattered in my vulnerable fragility,
for if I am shattered, I shall be vastly scattered — and if I am scattered,
the remnants of me will be blown away by the wind,
and taken to a place of desolation where coldness of the heart begins.
There must be no safe space for them;
they must not be allowed to strike again.
They must be burned in the fire of the pain of their victims,
and have their ashes taken away by the wind.
History must only mention them in the context of, Never Again.
They must be condemned, and the womb they were conceived in.
They must be forced from their secret places in the darkness of the early morning,
and be left as sustenance for ravens, before the appearance of the red sky of the evening.
They must experience one thousand times fold, the torment of their victims;
left to contemplate their fate, shaken, by the sounds of their own breathing.
They will not be mourned in their leaving;
no beautiful floral arrangements;
no carriages with black horses, with blinders waiting;
no tears of elderly women, with silk gloves in black veils grieving.
In their final moments, the terror of their destruction will be upon them.
The shattered pieces of me remain behind and unswept,
Still strewn on the floor where my eyes first wept.
I awake, still broken, wanting to be whole again,
Hoping that my soul will finally mend.
The sorrow of my heart seems to never end.
I keep falling — but not in love again;
I just keep falling,