The Dying Art That Is Romanticism, Is Our Only Salvation

Misery loves company but when you're with me, it's a sordid sort of apathy. All great things must come to an end; I enjoyed them at the time because they don't last forever; because in my mind they remain immortal. In my mind we are left with a reminder of a perfect ending that never came. An evening ruined in discord, a night of ultimate pleasure and a morning that never came after nor saw the break of dawn; it didn't stand a chance. And neither did we; we did as we pleased, we came and gone but we never left. What was left was not meant to be found. However, what I did find was something left uncovered; I found a voice through her but I didn't speak to her; I used it for other things. When she left I was speechless, all of my words were stolen. I couldn't get past the choking. I tried to find solace in her; I found no one. I tried to salvage what I could of my intentions; I didn't like what I found. You've stripped me of everything; my talents rendered useless. "I have little use for users that use-less," you say. You were a mistake; a mis-take on what should have been. The holes in my skin beg to differ, the fact that I ever felt complete; I always find myself in times of desperation, attempting in vain to feel whole.