Enviable Cataclysm

It is catastrophic, like the violence that pierced the air when the first people attempted in awkward voices to sing. It is a line of sinew binding you and I together in the unseen. Though stretched thin by distance I can still hear the murmur of your pulse like drums in the darkest jungle, and though the rhythm be intense it is still a familiar calling that I match with my own fervor. If you were to ask me honestly what I missed, i would confess through unnamed rosaries the quiet things that brought me pleasure. I admit to disaster, waiting with each bated breath behind veiled words, for only a trickle to cross these lips would leave them raw with unimaginable taste and if coupled with yours our bittersweet muse would come to conduct an orchestra of two worlds colliding in enviable cataclysm. I lay it now before me as melancholic ambrosia, something tasted yet never forgotten, something willingly given yet never fully taken. Thus i come to curse providence which drove you from me, thus i came to curse myself seeing the inequities in providence as my own... and all only to admit in whispered words, my head bent upon your shoulder as though it were a pew:


That if i were lonely i would crave the company of your voice,
if i were sick i would find my cure all in your presence,
and if i were dead i would seek resuscitation at your touch, it reaching far beyond the veil of the perturbed immediate causing me to forfeit all before this one despotic truth that governs me so.