I still cannot explain what it is

that makes me love you. I really can’t.

Maybe it lies in your appearance?

As much as you deny it, you are beautiful;

Is it the hair? I saw it reddish-brown once.

Now it is raven black. It must be a favorite color

or something. it reflects your clothing.

The glasses you don make you even cuter.

But I wish that I could remove them.

Your eyes scream for attention.

Your lips, usually pouted, or holding

a cigarette (you told me you’d quit)

look kissable. Lord know I’ll never see.

Your skin is pale. Not pasty, but a light,

creamy smooth that contrasts your hair.

It’s even lovelier that way.

And your hands, small in mine

(or so I would imagine),

wrists bound in bracelets and

leather strips and chains.

Your fingers, painted, have a cigarette

dangling from between them (quit?).

And then, there is your mind. They way

you think. Not just the darkness, the frightening

and chilling, but the light-hearted,

sometimes big-fished mind-razings.

Like the music (fight power).

It’s your schtik. Depression to

devastation of worldly powers,

you love it all. And then,

your own creative (and volatile)

thoughts a-brewin’.

You let them flow, much the

same as I.

And your ever-quirky persona.

"I’m a loser."

You’re my loser. I wish.

We’re all losers.

Ah – a goddess more likely.

Giggling every once in a while, a

magical and musical and munificent

sound that raised me to

a nirvana (one mention)

plain. And your witty, snide

comments. I too giggle.

When you scorn others,

I tend to agree.

But I am deeply saddened, angel.

And this is the cause for this

depressed and angsty work before you.

You’ve been hurt. Jaded if

you will.

As disgusting crime to be done.

And inside, you’ve killed yourself,

twisted your heart out, beloved.

And I cry silence for you.

It is my mourning for you.

I cannot be there for you.

For you, my jewel, I cannot

show you my love.

And I cannot be raised

to the fullest of my nirvana (two mention)

state. I really can’t.

But I cannot blame you.

I can be upset with your

Judas. Fool who fed you the

crucifixion of emotion. I’ve

cursed

cursed

cursed

many a time.

For nothing,

"It’s me."

But it isn’t.

It’s everything but you.