Love of My Life

The love of my life? How shall I describe an eternity of damnation?

She smells like sunshine, as juvenile as that is.

It is the scent of gardens bathing in the light, and the skins pheromone of pennies and sweat.

I know it well.

It is what my skin is saturated in with every hug that smells like childhood lake days.

And my love, she reminds me of the thrill of teenage amusement park rides.

But the sun goes down. The rides rust.

It nearly kills me.

I drink to drown her face. I burn my skin to stave off her touch. I tolerate to displace her love

I can't die from heartbreak. So I have to get used to the pain. Comprehend the hole in my chest and ignore it like a pestering roommate.

I forget she had ever seen me at my best, and resent her when I am my worst.

I do not love again. I try to replicate it. It does not work.

I eventually become a masochist for the stale pain when I need inspiration.

Do you want to know what that pain is?

It's the infernal noise that she was warm beneath my fingertips while everyone else's lips stay cool, pressed to my heated skin that cannot heal her mark.

Who can cool the pain?

She burnt me until I was nothing but freckles and sun spots. My skin is taut, red and soft to the touch. Was the burn worth the warmth that covered me? Yes. I would happily burn my burns for you