Anamaria

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Anamaria runs through my mind but stands apart in my heart. Her kisses are like liquid oxytocin.

Anamaria’s too beautiful for words but sings lyrics to a sonnet with a single smile. Her eyes can slow time and quicken my heartbeat in the same second.

She is the heartbeat's last hour of daylight, and I’m the oracle of Delphi: chained to my knees and invoking every muse currently available to me, begging for another hour, another minute, or even another second of her luminescence.

Anamaria’s beautiful, but I have to continuously remind myself she’s not really mine.

But I'm hopeless, and every glance of hers reminds me of the arrows with her name on it embedded between my ribs. Time only drives Cupid’s unrelenting spears deeper into my heartbeat. My heart beats for Anamaria.

Pleasure is pleasure and pain is pain. The two were niether the same or differing since the very beginning.

Time only drives this spear deeper between my ribs like between the folds of grey matter I call my mind. My mind and heart cannot come to an agreement. My mind wants my hand to rip this arrow out of my chest and leave Anamaria alone, my hand wants my heart to stop making it write love poems, and my heart wants a God to come out of the sky and rip these ribs out of my chest. Maybe they will materialize in the form of my love like they did for Adam.

But I am not Adam and she is not Eve.

She is Anamaria.

And I am almost falling for her. Almost is a bitch of a word, but almost falling like this is almost more intense than falling off the ledge of sanity, falling off the tip of a smile, falling off the crucifix because no nails are strong enough to chain me to the ghost of righteousness. I will bear the scars on my hands, I will wear the thorns on my mind, but I will reject the cross on my back. Righteousness is not the word for this; sacrifice does not properly convey the situation, it’s more like…unintentional suicide of the heart. The Reaper knows no mercy, shows no hurry, and holds no worry because in the end, we are all destined to end.

In context of the life of a universe what is a second? In the context of the life of a false love...what is Time at all?

Every second with her reminds me how little I know. One thing I do know though, is that I do not really love her. How can I, when I don’t even know the meaning of the word? ‘Love’ Even looking it up just results in broken promises and broken hearts. It’s only a matter of Time until I stop believing in it altogether; the one lesson that I want to learn the most is the one impossible for her to teach me.

Some things are best forgotten, but as they say: "the hardest love to forget is the one that never happened."

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