You are my best kept secret and I have yet to tell anyone of you, of your perfect eyes that keep me in mystified existence. Oh I can walk on water, scatter across an endless sea of reveries. Yet I am confused … singing as I muse. What am I to do with myself for I am bent on doing away with myself! Let’s find some place where we can go, hold hands and fall back. In my very eyes I see myself, my heart palpitating and wishing to play some sinister game. I will wrap you and put you away, before your very eyes! Why do sad things have to happen? I don’t know. We all make mistakes but some burn away like a fugitive star kissing the celestial horizon. Ah but you’re going much too quickly, I am sliding off and I have yet to catch my breath. Ah! Ah! How is it that my face lights up when you smile at me, or when I watch you being yourself night or day? My best kept secret is trivial and vain, too ripe for contempt. Yet I adore you for you possess the look of the affinity I desire and seek. Oh, so ripe and ready for the taking. Burning away with jealously in this febrile state, I wake only to realize that I have lost all reason. Tap, tap, tap! Faintly and disinterested. I am going to dress in black from to-day until to-morrow. Every day. Shh!
There are many a thing one can share, save those things that are truly precious that are truly one’s own. One cannot share the thoughts, the furtive gaze one gives upon the realization that one is being eaten in the eyes, in the energetic gaze of the one one loves. Do you see? Do you understand or is my sensitivity beyond your comprehension? Grab on, hold on … tightly for this is going to be difficult and tenuous to keep but well worth the personal discomfort. How depraved! How mendacious! Puerile you say! I laugh and draw my favorite finger to my lips. Shh. I bite my lower lip before forming a smirk. Say … hmm. Yes! I don’t quite fancy the cut of your jib. You are filled with so many a … imperfection but I love you none-the-less. My mother said, “Child of mine, why do you bite your fingernails? Such a filthy and mundane habit!” “Oh Mother, sweet giver of life. One would think you on whom I depended for life would better understand. Alas dear! Hah! You may think me a fool – but what mother would think her son a fool – but I do not wish to be a saint; perfection for me is not attainable nor desirable. No. I feed my imperfections because I have no desire to be perfect!”