Love is a mosca biting the aorta.

I clutch my chest to qualm the swarm of egregious sting, translating into certain sentences.

There is nothing to say when you bite the fruit, when the soul is in ravenous hunger...Why not wait until I rot?

 

My soul will always be old...

 

Days of everything from spectrums and orbits. Nights without use of the eyes... My extinguished love affair with the masses. And within myself I cannot categorize my own sense and sight...without a sting.

 

So, I go with the bees and the flies.

If I die inside to feel you.