Italian, Italian, Italian.

[inherentdecadence]

I dream feverishly of you saving me from myself.

I dream of your lips, your soul, your hand- your kindly hand. I dream of how you would hold me. How eager you were to dispel all my fears, to soothe my shaking forehead. I dream of your love, a warm thing around me- oh, my love, my love! Why do you not come back to me? I know why. It is all foolish. I love you so deeply my heart would ache- it does, it does.

How you healed me. How you were my saviour. And now there is nothing but dust.

- We were not perfect, but we loved- and that is something.

I was broken- I am. Perhaps that is why you do not love me, because I am sorrowed, on the inside. Useless! I was once your perfection- so long ago it seems now: barely a week, and yet- and yet.

In my dreams I trace your mouth with a trembling finger, and whisper sweet nothings to you as you hold me close. I love you- it exudes from every point on my body, my eyes, my life to yours. You only laugh at something with your calm Italian melody, but you're kind, and your hand as it lies on my cheek will never raise in fury against me. You are perfect. I would gladly fall to my knees in front of you and implore you to take me, to love me again. Gladly I would throw my dignity away for you. For you- I love you, I need you, come back. Come back to me, Italian, I am gone without you, I am nothing.

This shall ruin my reputation if ever it gets out.

Comments

Re:

[cuptilaxz.livejournal.com]

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[rhondaqev.livejournal.com]

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