"Thou dearest one to me,Of whom I ne'er speak darkly,
Lest it e'er come to be,
I love Thee in a sort of worship,
Second but to God,
And for the world shan't let Thee go,
But following Thee shall live away,
Treading where Thou hast trod."
But now, wrecks of memories that scar both wrists and lives aggravate me. For love grows thin, and love grows silent. Smiles turn into contorted mouths, unable to voice the monstrosity of the pain within, unable to end the asphyxiation. Temporary pleasures become eternal pains. Those lovers that felt newborn forget all feeling and withdraw into outer darkness, into the realm of the hollow, of shells, of stillborns. And they suddenly find themselves outside of Noah's Ark, knocking to no avail, knowing the magnitude of the coming destruction, coughing and shivering in the barbarous rain. Their infatuation in that peerless gaze of their lover becomes a nagging nightmare, and they start waking up, screaming "Et tu, Brutè?"
It's the truth, I've known such times, I've lived through them. I live through them still.
Adonis
