Dear.

 

The time left on Earth is relative now.

Every second by your side reflects a drop of water,

— and every humid touch is a violation to my sanity

 

Inside this body there is a trap,

A conscience that moves fluids

— boiling through small veins to feed on

 

There is blood and tears in this war.

That trickle down the same path,

— a fruit surrounded by rotting flies

 

Clouds following a predictable pattern

Creating figures that mean nothing

— a cloak that hides truth

 

Concealing ourselves under a mask,

Acting like there is freedom

— till every lie bulges out of a hole

 

Black holes that devour truth in a vacuum,

Deteriorating lives in a prospective 

—- where we initiated a meaning.

 

Falling into an eternal pit of emptiness,

Searching for value that we take into our bodies

— running a blade and inserting it quickly.

 

There is a countdown to every move,

Already predetermined or assumed,

— a manipulation that plays wicked games

 

A trick that we can’t see,

Sensitive fingers driving up my skin is one,

— a superficial passion a being permits.

 

To be loved and find meaning in a pond,

Where time has always been relative to its existence,

— and you were always a fish caught in a net

 

Drowning in an addiction of pollution,

That kills you slowly but you adore to endure

— a masochist living through a delicious situation.

 

When the time comes where you decide to stop,

And morph into a sadist again, inflicting pain on my mind,

—-there will be a garden with an open stream that leads to a tree.

 

There are no pills to relieve pain

in a conditional world. 

— there's only truth.

 

Truly yours with affection.