The Despair That Is Love
I yearn for that which I can not grasp.
Fingers stretch for what is out of reach;
Catching nothing but air.
Yearning for that which brings me pain.
Fingers still stretching.
Yes! With finality the gap between that wich I yearn for is breached.
Though only to carress and recieve split flesh in return.
The pendulum swings, and drops of my essence meet the floor.
Along with the pain afflicted; I feel something else.