My dark friend
I'm still trying to stop myself from becoming a monster.
People are people, they're only stirring distress on dusky faces.
My mistress walks alone, a widow of many men, folding her writings in a book of mourning and pretentious love.
My hand reaches for my scattered remembrances, attempting to suffocate the pain, it was so unclear why I've served you.
My papa tells me that it was a heart disease, and a beautiful disease, music conceived in places with no agony, no betrayal, no war for love.
It's a gift from an author killed by the same urge.