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I want you but I cannot have you, however, I know if I do not, like a man on his death bed I’ll lie pondering on all of my sorrowful regrets and you’d be one of them. One of the most ethereal creature’s to exist, like a creeping fever in the desert, my mouth would purge an insatiable need to relieve the growing thirst, it is you that would be the singular remedy to obscure it. But like a fool I cannot have you, for the devil does not tame the angel without burning her in the process. And as the powdered petals danced upon the mulberry of your soft frame — I felt it even further in my soul, that inhumane need — to feel the fervor of your skin upon mine, and the paralyzing desire to have your deepest thoughts submerge into my mind. I did not know what the feeling of love was completely but if this was not love then what was it — was love not the ghastly passion that tremors and obliterates the body in the most wonderful way, was it not a dizzy haze of unadulterated glee, was it not the heed of dreaming to wake up to the same adoring eyes and perfectly imperfect being. If that was not love I was doomed, for maybe in actuality love is not the overwhelming feeling of perfect torrential storms in complexity. Rather it is a straightforward feeling — one easily identifiable. I could not decipher it nor did I bother doing so as I with greatest resistance and dejection of temptation cast her under my spell, and enraptured her under my wings.