Youth and Love

I miss the feeling of youth. The eagerness of love, the existence of liveliness, the excitement of fortune. I’m only nearly an adult, but my flesh feels as though it’s degraded into a dying, sick being, who’s past recalls of youth and love are no longer even capable of grasping as a memory. Love blossoms as a seed and dies in a fire. It impales the skin and leaves a mark. It bleeds. If it is such a sweet feeling, why must it be so bitter? Why does it die? Why does it bleed? Why do I bleed? Life is a circle of endless pain, but why, why does the pain hold so heavy? Was love made to shatter the youth in your heart, never to return in fair pieces? I miss that sweet feeling, I miss its blossoming, I miss its impalement. Love used to be so wonderful, so delicate and kind. Your love the most delicate, the most beautiful and precious. Your love felt like the summer sun rising on my body, like petals blooming in shades of sweet lilac. Never will I feel that return, never will I find a treasure like that. May I die in the broken pieces of youth that were once part of the grand bouquet of the oblivious bride.