I recently heard a question being asked about the lips of an Angel. This poor soul didn't know what they were, and he could only get all the wrong answers. I didn't answer him then because at the time I hadn't yet found the words to describe what the lips of an Angel are. But now, I've found his answer:
The lips of an Angel are not lips of angels, naturally; they're human lips. They're the lips of the world's prettiest maiden. Upon seeing them, I was taken up in a tornado, wildly flung about by winds of passion, by a storm of love. Upon kissing them, I felt the purity of heaven.
Perhaps they're called the lips of an Angel because they seem like gifts from God, or perhaps they're called that because of their ultimate purity. Either way, they truly are something to behold and experience, and indeed joyful are they who find someone whom they esteem as the prettiest person in the whole world; someone who enraptures them to heaven with a kiss and makes them speak in the most beautiful language--the language of love-- for the rest of their days.
These are the lips of an Angel, but no matter what answer you get for your question my friend, you'll never truly understand it until you have found a maiden whose kiss makes you float to heaven: a mere mortal in the realm of immortals, a foreigner among angels.

Adonis

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It is during nights like these, when the only thing I hear is the ticking of the clock hanging above my head, and when the only things I see are my empty cup and dark window, that I miss you the most. Nights like these make me wish we could disappear to an empty place, with nothing that can hold us back; nothing but each other. Nights like these make me stare at the phone, begging it to ring. Sometimes I plead out loud, “Please, call me, Love,” but no reply.

I wish that you’ll just call me one of these nights; surely I’ll not be sleeping—I can not sleep with thoughts of you ever waltzing around my head. I wish we can spend one night away on the phone, like we used to.

Did we use to talk on the phone? It all seems so distant now, I have forgotten. And our romance, our comedy, our passions, I have forgotten their flavor. Remember when I told you:

Kiss me now or never…
…I might soon forget the flavor,
So my Love, do me a favor…
…Before we part kiss me goodnight.

Remember? I wrote that long ago, jokingly, when I was inspired by your stubbornness. You didn’t want to kiss me, for some reason or another, you teaser. I remember.

But not only do nights like these torment me with thoughts of you, but they also make me realize how lonely life is now, without you. “Is it natural,” I ask myself, “for a human to contain so much love without bursting?” I wonder, “How could someone love this much, and get nothing in return?”

I hate nights like these; I miss you to death, I question my love for you, I look outside to see the darkness that’s inside, deep inside. It’s pure solemnity, breeding with loneliness, and its only offspring is tearful disaster. I sob and whisper, sob and whisper, sob and whisper.

Adonis

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Lest thou shouldst dash thy foot upon a stone

My heart, my love, lest thou shouldst ever moan

Lest thou shouldst ever lose me 'fore our time

Let me leave you and leave this wicked clime

Leave me princess, leave me prematurely

'Tis better my dear, 'tis better surely.

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My Dear,
They tell me that love comes and goes, like the eternal tide. They tell me that each man can love a hundred women, and each woman a hundred men. They tell me, also, that it's never over, this game we play. The game of love. They tell me that it's much like gambling, except one never runs out of chips. They tell me to just go to sleep, to forget all about what once was, and to move on to something better. They tell me to smile.
But when they're telling me these things, all I can think of, like every other moment of my life, is you. I remember that when you left me, you took with you the tide, and the beautiful sunsets with it. I remember that I've only loved you all my life. I remember how serious our little game was, how magnificently serious. I remember how I loved to gamble with you. I remember that when sleep finally overcomes me in those long, painful nights--nights without goodnights--I always dream of you. And how can I smile, dreaming of you nightly? How can I move on when visions of you come to me at night? Or when I see you crawling into the bed where I'm sleeping, the bed where I'm nothing? You wake me up with a kiss. Not a kiss of betrayal, rather an apologetic kiss, a have me back kiss. How can I smile then?
I can not forget you, no, and no, I can not live without you. You are the fuel for the fire. You are the inspiration for it all. From your hair stems my passion, from your eyes my poetry. Thanks to your smile, I keep alive, and due to your embrace, I am whole. From your lips the songs of life proceed, from your tenderness warmth beyond measure. Your thought makes me question, your kiss gives me flavor. Every day, I am more thankful I met you, every day more mournful I lost you.
I picture you every second of my life. I loved nothing more than loving you, I love nothing more still. I lost my great inspiration, then, with your departure; I lost my love, my hobby, my entertainment, my heart. I am gradually losing my sanity and my fire. I am certainly broken.
I think maybe one day I'll send you this letter, and you might receive it, even though you are worlds away. Then, I wonder what you'll feel. I certainly hope you don't feel regret. I wonder, what do I want you to feel?
Yours wholeheartedly,
Myself.

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