Sunday greets us sweetly and the bottle has run dry. This is the last time that I will let you in. Chloroform graces the ever-popular photograph, brimming with aspersions. But the lights have all burned out tonight to honor your greatest achievement: stabbing me so softly I mistake it for your perfect entrance. Hang yourself from my limbs; I would love to see you try to face me. Gaze through me on your way down. I can see your madness painted on the reddened sky. With a simple flick of the wrist, your promises were defiled. This empty picture has been distorted by the rivers from my eyes. I never want to hear your face again. Another lie. Losing everything through your mistakes, but it’s worth it. I adore you. Changing faces taint our canvas with somatic lies. I abhor you. Brace yourself, for when you threw away all of those things you said, I died, but not in your arms as I had hoped to. Face yourself, how long will it take to speak of love again to me, a thing I never knew before I loved you. My beautiful virus. And I can’t see what I’ve done to drive you to this desecration of our so-called passion, of our so-called love. So where are your plush seraphim when you need them? And what’s the point of love if it doesn’t last forever? THE BLOOD -- IS FOR -- YOU. I am giving up on this, but I can’t give up on you. THE BLOOD IS FOR YOU. Light a candle for a kiss cast aside. This train will go all night so I’ll go along for the ride. Now I get my wings in this darkness, oh, my beautiful virus. And I will fly away from you, oh, my beautiful virus. And I will cry these tears upon the earth, oh, my beautiful virus. Hoping we’ll meet somewhere between death and you. Your serrated words, which carry no longer a message of love, tear into my heart in the same way you did when we met. One last whisper, left softly under your door: I love you and farewell.