VEIL'D MELANCHOLY.

I - AMID BLURRED SILHOUETTES, YOU WERE ART.

My dear melancholy, you're a temptress who has forsaken her golden words. When I didn't have you, I longed for you in ways that scripture does not have detailed. The prudent master's imprudent deity, you stand and bend against every corner.  There is poetry on the streets, the same way there is your scent in the contours of my neck. I can smell your redolence from miles away, when the remains of cherry blossoms of spring fall— I know I'll find you there. The summer wind moves the grass like ocean waves, and you try to submerge me in your lake of oblivion which has been crafted through the tears of weeping clouds. Bury me under your colossal dirt, and I'll breathe under the particles of your suppressed being. Fear you? I shall not. I cherish your salted skin, ethereal thorns and wilted petals. I'll even moan out your name with a rosary made up of your sins, just for sake of it. You cannot separate darkness from darkness, especially when your vision forbids you. Just like your fleeting feelings of bitterness, this illusionary joy will soon collapse at your feet. When your false sense of belonging shifts to grief, temptation will cease to exist. And just like the late summer sky, you'll fade too.