One should be able to see into the soul of a loved one. To read his heart like bold black letters upon alibaster walls. I seem to lack this talent. To me, it is written in the palest of greys almst transparent upon white parchment. Sometimes, if the light of the day is strong, I am able to make some sense out of the chaos. Only to find that the writing is in another language, one unknown to me. Am I blind to the prose of my love's heart? Or does he refuse to write?
One can easily decipher the rants of my soul, for they are splashed in red graffiti, like blood, on the walls of my prison. One only needs to enter with a willingness to read...
