Dear ghost,
In that swelling corner of my bosom, a soaking hue wanders. Those sizzling colour might be a mistake. An error of narcissism. But what of the look from the corner of your eyes. Those lingering stare. Those crooked smile and your mellow voice that roughly leave your smiling lips.; have I gone so mad that I crazily design it. If so, how cruel I am to me!
But these truly might be an error. I might have designed it. Put more meaning in it then I should. But my bane is my imagination and it always shall be.
But this supposed spring have arose from the winter of his abandonment. He that has been. He that could have. He that I still adore but not like the past.
Yours