She is my goddess. I dream of her every night like an electric blue in my darkest night. I love her; I love her dark images lying within me. I desire her. I suffer for her. She is my rose that defines my intimate lust to black petals. Am I dreaming? Her beauty is my joy against the inexplicable landscape of existence. Have you seen her eyes? Her eyes like a dot in the sky. Her naked eyes, her dead eyes I desire in her silence.
I make love to her cadaver. I make love to my nymph. Her last word still exists in my fantasy. I’m dying, I’m flying, I’m begging. I am crying as I dream of her naked, so vivid in the fog of my confused being. Here is a draw between her pulchritude and Death.
Her pulchritude is sadness never wither in my bed. I am suffering from isolation and beautiful memories. Is living a kind of poetic struggle? I am bleeding with lost words and promises, bleeding in her absence, making love with her body parched with lethargic words. What is existence if I can’t create you with imagery and allusion, Maria Isabelle?
Her love is my vanity. My vanity is my nocturnal malady. I suffer for this beautiful enigma. I hide her pulchritude deep in the darkness of my heart. The tears of the black emerald are reverie in my sleepless night. It is a dream of simple joy where words are nomads and heresy of wisdom. She died and I created her image with fantasy, anguish, hatred, and total silence. Her death becomes my divinity. Life with her kiss is indefinable. It is music with tempo of madness and tenderness. It is poetry hiding with her virginity. Ah, my Maria Isabelle, my nymph. Life is a tragedy to fulfill, I reckon. Do you still remember the past before Death kissed you? Love you said “Must be with sadness. It has neither beginning nor end. It is beauty inside the tragedy of life. Love must possess the solitude of the self and never a possession of the other self”. How true, how true! Is love an expression of the self only to become a possession of the past?
I wait her holding her hand in my dream. I wait for her while I wander in the beauty of thing that sleeps in the middle of the night.
She left and died. In the spring of July was the first time I made love to her cadaver. In the dark space of my heart I conquered the love that will never be mine again. I mourn in her silence. Her lips are mute I love to kiss, her breast is a soft pillow I caress, her naked body is a dead petal of rose with intimacy and lust. I am with sadness. I am fleeting. I am with her death.
Death.
Death is.
Before July sadness is vague. Walking with her in the garden of life is a passionate moment for me, an exquisite joy. I paint the sky with purple hue. It was life full of surprises, imagination, sensuality and love. My love is dying as it breathe the passion and desire of my beloved. Ah, Maria Isabelle, I am now here with your memory and without your lips to warmth me. I disobey time. Why do you have to kiss me with all these flowers lying here without you seeing how beautiful they are? Time is something I can’t unravel. My consciousness is always there in my past. Where are you, Maria Isabelle? I want to kiss you, to feel you, to make love with you.
I can’t imagine her last words for me. I hate her last word exists in my mind: The last word of love is saying goodbye.
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