Untitled - I Hate Using the Word Love

I've pondered on these things, Gasped over these things, many scores, a plentiful year ago. I expected a calmer touch, the absence of tempers ascending, the road less sinful. These things are retrospect, I was a false dreamer on. From the day I fell into this misery, she never played mercy. I've never met a more tempting urge to ache than from the scent of her presence. Did she sleep upon the pit of lucifers knee? Why so subtle? She would question when I held her, Starring doomsday in its vibrant, cultivating pupils. Company from yesterday caught wind of my SOS. They sent every safe page they graduated from, And ordered my return. But I knew of no backspaces I wanted to entertain again. It began to settle on me, the ease of she was a myth, until I wrote tomorrow with no gasp, no pause; the kiss of risk never left alone again. Since I've learned better, she tends to play smoother, smile deeper, deeper than this 30-year-old metaphor I'm still solving.