My infatuation of you is a cureless fever. I feel the currents flowing through the empty valleys, black mountains arise from the bottom of my heart, so deep where lights are unreachable. In such darkness my love is born, pouring out like the rich scent of a honeymoon, swirling like drunk petals in the pound, breathing out the air after the fresh rain reason. My paces hesitate and leave out a streaming spring. It goes all the way to the enclosed door of your eyes, transparently open and clear. There are answers to our story but I can make no promises about any of them. Sometimes it takes more than just bloods to write. That's why I let go of your hands and treat your departure as a second resurrection. Not every language speaks of love beautifully. It's a labyrinth. Think when Romeo climbs up to Juliet's balcony. Even just a small act to reach her will shatter the moon-like tenderness. So sad we breathe the same air after them. One says the ephemeral pursuit is very childish. You are courageous to admit you only want the thought of me. Do you have me in your mind tonight? Through your vision I see crimson red like butterflies of youth, resting on summer-sweet checks, eating virgin shyness, sweeping over the last night breeze. It's dangerous to ignore the seasonal change but that's how I escape from time. Let there be pretentious distance between us. Only through abysmal darkness shall one sees light. Your voice is an erupting volcano and I am the floating spindrift at your feet. If love is a fever then let it be. Embrace your heat, perish for free.