If I were to speak of something precious—something that w

If I were to speak of something precious—something that warms my heart—I would speak of your eyes; those wild, almond-shaped eyes. Do you remember them from the moments you pulled your hand away from mine? No! You never saw your own eyes; you never knew what they did to me amidst all this misery. You never knew the luster they lent my gaze when my empty hands brushed your cheeks; you never knew how—with this rotting grave of a body and these shattered bones—I managed to bring my heart back to life for you.

They say beauties are faithless, so I should not complain about you. I should not speak of the things I always did for you—things you never noticed, never acknowledged, and never truly saw. I should not speak of them

I shouldn't say this, but I will: had I been born a thousand years ago, I would have carved you from cypress wood, kissed your eyes at every sunrise, and compelled every tribe to worship your beauty. What a pity—what a pity that I live in an age where people know only how to look and move on! They do not know the taste of a kiss from your lips; they do not know how deeply that body—sculpted from wood—captures a person's very soul.