Love is the resistance towards hell.
i found comfort in the dead.
i've fallen for death.
but you loved someone who resisted love.
Those were the words of a fallen angel, verses of the many poetries he wrote for me, all those crimson glazed pages proclaiming the history of our love, he colored it crimson.
It began raining as soon as i laid my first step in the dark manor, absent of light. Absent of him. The silence echoes through me, it trembles me.
I vowed to myself that day, i would never enter this chamber again, not until every single drop of the blood in my soul escapes my flesh.
But here I am gravitating towards you yet again.
Tears fill my eyes, the soft rain accompanies me, the scarlet clouds reminisce you.
My footsteps halt before the entrance of the chamber of velvet chandeliers.
I tell myself, "you will die again."
"i am already dead." i respond.
I open the chamber, i lay the first step inside the chamber, it is concealed, how my humanity is.
My fingertips tremble upon the mere thought of light entering this chamber, the moment the artifacts here are illuminated, i will die yet again.
Yet i do it.
And there it was the requiem of silence being played by the rain mourning my death.
I walk and in front of me, a painting of me, hundreds of me, some of them disfigured, some of them poetry.
He painted them for me , he wrote them for me.
His blood is on all of them.
He is in them.
He is in me.