Know this: I never meant to harm you. Never did I wish to see tears streak down your flushed smooth skin, a raindrop on a rose. It was never my intent to hurt you, to make you cry and curse my name and damn the very day you met me.
All I wanted, all I ever wanted, was love.
Love. Trite sentiment, cheapened by overuse, repeated until it becomes just another word with meaning long since spent in endless pursuit of what some mistakenly call happiness.
Love, a bargaining chip, a smuggler’s coin, a gypsy’s veil. Fleeting. Filmy. Vapid. Love is neither constant nor caring, and those who believe otherwise have never truly felt its raging wrath. Love is not light. Love is blindness, and pity belongs to those who care not to see.
It is with remorse and fickle memory of love that I stand at your door, watching you. The gentleman with the long black coat and eyes that speak of sadness is sitting on your couch, sipping tea that you offered in consolation though it was your heart that was scorched. You have many long days ahead of you, my darling. You must learn to be strong. You must wait for me, as I wait for you…
In the fields of Asphodel.