Thin air

Though these haunting paintings in the hallways of my mind hang your face beneath my skin, they do but serve the purpose to feed such horror to my soul as does your departure from my life...

Perhaps not to far than as is self and to such awareness you lurk and creep back into the spaces of my visage... Reflections, so easily forgot... Strange how you have not washed away the blood from your hands...

Still there is beauty in this self portrait... a rose by any other name is still a massacre and violent display of magnificence that offers both affection and pain that rises from beneath to all who would dare but reach in the hopes to have you from the moment you stem...

Thin air... but a breath if not its last... taken deeply.