Some objects are too sacred to touch, and I remain too scared…
The memory they embody is too intense for the vulnerability of my senses
Instead, they speak to me of your secrets, ones you yourself don't know
Whispers of how they caught your attention as they reminded you of me
Extensive description of my image in your eyes as you contemplated them
They adored being a reflection of me to your beautiful mind
Their favorite part is when you held them as if you were caressing a part of my body
They told me of your smile when you imagined mine upon receiving them
They revealed the hums you uttered, the poetry your lips spilled, the kind of surreal rituals we share, that transcending state of mutual completion
You poured pieces of my charade into their lifeless structure and they became poets of your mysteries
Some objects are an immortal extension of you and as the layers of your schizophrenic contradiction sink deeper, so do they grow stronger, fed on your insanity, high on my myth
Some objects are yearning for that bodily impact, and I remain too scared.. In their absence, they howl my name with your own voice, that resonating sound that became the background of my landscapes
Will I be able to quench their thirst, or was it mine all along, hypnotized by the memory's irresistible urge to come alive?
The memory they embody is too intense for the vulnerability of my senses
Instead, they speak to me of your secrets, ones you yourself don't know
Whispers of how they caught your attention as they reminded you of me
Extensive description of my image in your eyes as you contemplated them
They adored being a reflection of me to your beautiful mind
Their favorite part is when you held them as if you were caressing a part of my body
They told me of your smile when you imagined mine upon receiving them
They revealed the hums you uttered, the poetry your lips spilled, the kind of surreal rituals we share, that transcending state of mutual completion
You poured pieces of my charade into their lifeless structure and they became poets of your mysteries
Some objects are an immortal extension of you and as the layers of your schizophrenic contradiction sink deeper, so do they grow stronger, fed on your insanity, high on my myth
Some objects are yearning for that bodily impact, and I remain too scared.. In their absence, they howl my name with your own voice, that resonating sound that became the background of my landscapes
Will I be able to quench their thirst, or was it mine all along, hypnotized by the memory's irresistible urge to come alive?
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