We are Infinite

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck

Whatever fuck this

Dear kind, lonely souls,

It’s not as bad as you think.

You are not alone.

Opened the covers,

but haven’t yet turned the page

you are my fiction

I wonder sometimes,

What’s it like to be in love? What’s it like to look at someone and see a perfectly imperfect being? That somehow, through God’s good graces you have found a home for your heart. Always open and adorned by a homely hearth, with a blaze always pulsing waves of heat to caress your skin. It may not always match the sun’s fiery core, but its simmering sparks will always be enough.

What’s it like to see them and know, that when their eyes peruse into your soul, they’ve seen galaxies far beyond the breadth of our imagination, galaxies conjured solely by them, for you? To know that your merits outweigh your faults, that Hercules himself could not claim to have accomplished what you have done, that Cleopatra herself could not have seduced you from your beloved, that if Zeus wanted to smite and break you apart, he would not be able to do it alone.

Is there such a love so strong? Perhaps I am foolish like all fools who dare to dream, and romantics who dare to love. Perhaps a Romeo without his Juliet but one must wonder, would Romeo even be Romeo had he not met the one who shaped his star struck fate?

Our hearts were close enough together,

to whisper phrases sweet.

Both their tunes were soft,

and hummed a single beat.

But both were humble hearts,

and their melody discreet,

so they traipsed slowly by and by

never again to meet.

As long as birds chirp

When skies begin blushing blue

So I, with them, write

You’ve spilled your ink and now

I can’t dream anymore.

To dream is to see and I can’t see anymore.

For to see, the particles and waves of light

need reflect onto the back of my eyes and into my brain,

like ink etchings on paper,

but there isn’t paper anymore.

The pages are used and scribbled over.

There isn’t space anymore, no more room to write,

and any more ink will just form lovely Rorschach blots,

blotting out the rest until I can’t see anything anymore,

until there is no more but pages and pages of cloudy black smores

with no taste anymore,

eclipsing the light till I can’t see anymore,

and finally all I dream about anymore

is you, nothing less

nothing more.