I waited for Love, Love in infinity. So I think of

Butterflies,

how their wings glister through the sunlight and their multicolor eyes catch you in yours

Then came their bodies, pinched to the wall, wings, much like before, but a broken Heart,

Stabbed through by a pin, the pinpoint of humanity.

For we call this action of penetration of self-dedication, Love.

Yet still I long for beauty, much as eager as for this dead body.

Thus the forever stabbing, too persistent loving monster am I,

and I'm still to devour beauty and love

Till there are no butterflies.

Then I realize it was neither love.

There was none.

This - this whole thing is just imagination of self-determined dignition in monolithic manifestation

I'm not waiting for Love;

I am just waiting for Winter,

when we are too cold we must cuddle

and wait to call it Eternity.