I'm so weird.

Forgive me but I must have touch to fall in love.
The love, a gorge, while I zumba by its precipice.
But to see it is a chat, a virtue gain to love.
I wrote you a thousand times. Mon petite dulce.
La danse sacrée des sucrés dix-sept douce.

A secret night mass in the misty heart of a black forest
Under the prismatic diffusion of the light of the Moon
With a bucket full of stolen booze and bisuits and brownies
And a bubble-gum machine black spider ring of recycled polyethylene.
A backpack full of books no one else will ever be allowed to read.

A dress of Hot Topic velvet,
A leather strung pentacle medallion of sterling.
Curly red hair scented freesia,
And green, earth elemental green eyes.
A spirit full of wolf: teeth enlarged that pang for blood.

A kiss to me:
The fat of my neck.
"Oh, the dirty pleasure of thy love bite."
I grasp you passionately.

We settle down and gaze up at the Brigid Oak Moon
Describing all manner of pleasures and pain
Wafting like the scent of cherry pie or smoke
Upon the mana whispering in the trees in tip-tops,
and in the golden sparks of faerie dust
as they whip about the periphery of sight
and dash through inter-dimensional port holes.

A string that binds.
Really, just a visual aid, but
Ye to me it ties forever.
I can still feel you.
My heart still seeks you.
Maybe I will never truly move on.
I will certainly never replace you in my mind.
But I feel guilty.
I can love again, I know it.
But this shadow of yesterday dimmer is cast.
Makes me rush to love.
I may have loved a lifetimes worth already.
But that sounds like a self-fulfilling prophecy:
I simply must not believe it.

Yes I miss that bond.
I will never connect with anyone in quite the same way.
But I will love truly again.
This I believe.
But some very good years are behind me.
Seventeen was almost a lifetime ago.
I honor thee. You want me to move forward.
I can feel this in my bones.
You want me to find a worthy lover,
And while there are scores of candidates
A good fit is very rare indeed for me.