You began to map out her skin, putting thumb tacks on the parts of her mind that you favor the most, filling your walls almost completely.
Counting every blemish and every forgotten ruin that you know to be so crucial, as they are the clues all before you had missed.
You scattered notes of her all among the geography of your existence. The way she taste in the morning when your lips meet hers, or the way you're soul aches in her absence.
Day by day you study her story, trying to find a motive for loving a soul as bleak as yours.
Siting and waiting for the day of your mental homicide when she realizes - that you are nothing more than a dreamer.
That you are nothing more than hazel eyes, and weary sunsets, nothing more than pale skin and lost pretenses of the life you wished to lead.
You watch In awe only hoping that one day when you wither, the autopsy of your life will find nothing,
but the remnants of her.
