I am melting. Everyday, I feel like I’m placed under the August sun, burning on hot pavement. I know it’s not going to end in the goddesses gardens or the man’s graveyard, but that’s where it will start. I manifested you, unintentionally, of course. But you appeared in my peripheral vision like a mirage, not sure it was real until I took a second glance. Fiends by nature’s will, and toxic by the wish of the stars. Argumentative and passionate, curious and impulsive, we are not built to sustain much. But we will burn, if you allow us to do so, and we will burn in the fires of hell and I will spend my winter in a trance, but if only you could warm me in the meantime. The central heating could not compare to the warmth of your arms, or the sweatshirt I met you in. I’m looking too far ahead, and wistfully, hopefully, despite her petty advances and your sociable nature. Am I anything more than a carbon copy of the arms you wished held you as you were a child? Whatever I may be, I know I will be a bed for your weary soul, and you will be the dose that will wake me up. Younger than me, and bolder than me, I find restitution in your bright red cheeks, filling every gap I thought would not be closed, especially by the aura of another. With red faces and glowing eyes, I will find you just as pure as when you’re crying, or when you’re angry and the heat rises through your veins and into your face, and the red is no longer a sign of joy, but proof of the demons that reside in your bloodline. I am aware this will not last long. I am aware you are not the best decision, but my soul craves yours and I feel a need to follow what I, myself, manifested into my own life, into my own vision. You’ve got a god complex, and I am convinced you must be a collection of the darkest parts of tangible nature, antichristian. I feel as if I’ve hit a soft spot, the petals to the thorns. Your skin is as golden as honey, or as golden as the sunset that is vast across the April skies. Tequila Sunrise, built from the Arizona horizon, as dusty as your silky hair. You will protect me with all of your being, or destroy me with all of your power. And either I am willing to take, as long as it means we spark, maybe for just a second. Incarnations of something wicked, Perspehone and Hades would nurture us in their grim gardens and lace flowers in our hair, barbed wire crowns and the fire would drink us up as we laughed with pure delight. It may been unrequited, and I may just be a dreamer with a desire for something as dark as I, or darker, given the circumstances. We are much like the characters that came before us, Webster, Draven, White, Ross. The places we will visit are covered in moss, nothing short of reminiscent of the dreams I’ve had early in the morning, where you’re laughing at everything I say and holding me. I will try, and I will give you a try, if you promise to give me one as well.