“The special quality of hell is to see everything clearly down to the last detail.”
― Yukio Mishima, The Temple of the Golden Pavilion
Like lotuses, my infatuation would merge from under the murkiness of my heart, the sting of my hate, and bloom above the surface. They were pristine, untouched by the ink of my sin. Like the delicacy of your fingertips, they went along with the time, like the lines of your palms, like the rythme of your name, they beat; spellbinding. They would go, far, above all humans and their restricted minds. To the place linked to the sky, the place among clouds, place where all the dainty hands embraced the ceasing lives.
As the last luster of flickering star halted, as the last glimmer of infinity fell on the oblivion, as the lives decayed, the mortality of my veiled conscious of the crimson that tied the core of our intensities would continue living on; even as the hell extended its outstretched hand; even as my passion was mistaken as the greed; I would not move even as my skin, fresh were taken off me to expose the bareness of my heart that was prizoned between the ash white of my frail bones.
For every curve of me was made to hold your face on it, for every inch of my finger was made to be entwined with yours, for the warmth of my breath that was made to be exchanged with yours, for my limbs meant to be intertwined with yours in the eternity rest; for half of me is you.
