Proof.

Prove me wrong.

Prove to me that it is love that we seek.

Rather, it is the lessening of the gaping crack that exists upon all hearts.

It is the desiring of the hand, talently crafted and perfectly formed, to reach into that silent place and sing a golden song.

That is not love, it is the wholeness, it is the lover.

He was both the deepest of my love and the utter defeat of myself.

You, my suicide.

The soft spoken drifter. The lone element, the lone she wolf. Baptized in black ink. I breath and devour poems.