Shakespeare Never Wrote About Us...

Everywhere I look, I see you. And when I seek respite and close my eyes, I see you still. Empty memories haunt me...I am scared to be alone now. Solitude is like an unwelcome guest, parasitic and imposing, forcing me to be it's reluctant host. I was always alone...except when I saw color where gray used to be...that's when I was with you. But now you're gone and the void that you left in your wake seems impossible to fill. Nothing can sate it's hunger or quench it's thirst for my suffering. I cannot seal it off, nor can I seal myself off from it's dark vacuum. The passage of time that promised to rebuild me once my heart forgot the truancy of yours resonates a familiar betrayal. I drown in an ever deepening sea of foreboding and regret, at once looking ahead at the ominous clouds of love lost while looking back at my former selves in the rear view mirror...wondering where all the other people are. There was only you, Tanya. You filled the monochromatic shades of my existence with meaning and color. But look at me now. I am but a fractured, fraction of the man I transformed into every beautiful time we touched. As you walked away your invisible chained hooks ripped away my better parts...my gaping sores weep anew, as if just gouged. I am a distant memory, and a host to many more. You twisted and contorted my universe to go seek out what you already had...but maliciously chose to destroy. ...and still I admit that without you my heart physically aches in my tired, heavy chest. Less torture would befall me if you'd grabbed a blade and run me through...the sting would've lasted but a moment...and if you'd be so kind as to hold it outright with a firm grasp, I'd willingly exchange my resolve for yours and slide down upon it. And if you think you're so brave as to not feign a second thought, prove to me now woman that your treacherous heart is truly black and do not break your eyes from mine until your first tear can be held no more and my last breath cannot either. Hold back your guttural whimpers...indulge a dying man and tell me: who else do you presume will ever love you so much...who do you presume, notwithstanding an eccentric on Shakespeare's parchment, has ever loved ANYONE...so much? What, my love? I cannot hear you...only the velvet on your lips can I see, but no words pass them by...what did Shakespeare know of love anyway, my dear? He never wrote about us...