He is beauty. Everyone knows it; regardless, they cannot appreciate it like I can. In helpless adoration, the facile glimpses they chance to snare fall short of veracity; silver scaffolding bejeweled beyond a sovereign's wildest delusion entangling all thought, the untrained mind cannot help but stumble through his vitrified eyes, wines virgin to any lips, stupefied. "Awe" scarcely can express in due fashion the flush of meeting his gaze; I wish nothing but his touch as he weaves his wicked spells, my cheeks smoldering in reflection of the blood he spills with each hand's kiss; such perfection is reserved to his true love: work.
Since the beginning he has burned within me; he melts my very being, nonchalantly brushing away my waxen tears as if even preservation of his immaculacy is beneath him. His company is such calcified bliss; if I should die by his hand, at least it would signify that I had vexed him enough to deserve his notice, if but for one breathless moment.
If only I may feel his heat against my own, I whisper each night to any god that still listens. Seeming only to forget for that one glib flash of faith, I soon remind myself that warmth left him in a consanguineous collapse so many years ago; any remnant of zeal dissolved with his life. Impracticality knows how I suffer. I am a sinner, aware that I do not deserve the love of this immoral savior, this dead god among men, yet I long perpetually for the impossibility.