My Shadow Serves As The Friend I

Flowers, Cold From The Dew, And Autumn's Approaching Breath, I Pluck For The Warm, Luxuriant Braids, Which Haven't Faded Yet. In Their Nights, Fragrantly Resinous, Entwined With Delightful Mystery, They Will Breathe In Her Springlike Extraordinary Beauty. But In A Whirlwind Of Sound And Fire, From Her Shing Head They Will Flutter And Fall—and Before Her They Will Die, Faintly Fragrant Still. And, Impelled By Faithful Longing, My Obedient Gaze Will Feast Upon Them— With A Reverent Hand, Love Will Gather Their Rotting Remains.

Hands, Matches, An Ashtray. A Ritual Beautiful And Bitter.

Your Voice Is Wild And Simple. You Are Untranslatable Into Any One Tongue.

If You Were Music I Would Listen To You Ceaselessly And My Low Spirits Would Brighten Up.

It Is Unbearably Painful For The Soul To Love Silently.