Paradise lost, and all things must come to pass. Who is this at my door -- knocking, knocking, and then retreating back into the cold night air.
It is winter now, and you still have not returned. I have grown more refined in your absence, perhaps it is the distance that swings us towards amelioration.
You slowly pull away, and I am left to my novels and oil paints. Left to someone who wants to make an impression on me. To someone who doesn't mind if he changes who I am.
If who I am is in my mind, then I'm with you all the time. You made our love eternal by making a song out of it. You created a wound that could resurface at any time, by making our heartache art, but I did the same.
What is it called when two artists use each other for inspiration? Was it for personal gain or just to make sense of the remainder and deal with the pain?
I know there will never be another love as epic as yours, ours - because the present can't compete with the creative mind's nostalgia. We feed off that shit, milk it to the bone.
My dreams remind me of our past, and I am again made sad. No amount of solace through art or poetry could make me forget. Nothing is as passionate as the fiery sadness of two lovers bringing up each other's wounds.
Your words help you make sense of your life, as do mine. We move towards refinement with hearts split open.
xx
destination unknown coat by free people
lingerie by Maison Close