The Swallow

More of my writing. I've acquired a serious case of writer's block lately.

        
           I have decided to only love strangers. This method will allow me to elude the suffering that derives from intimacy. There will be no attachment required. I will never even know of my lover’s name. Nor will I become accustomed to the sound of their voice (I may never even hear it), or the curve of their back, or their idiosyncratic mannerisms. Instead, these people will merely be my muses that inspire poetry. They will pass by me, blissfully unaware of my infatuated gaze and bubbling affection. Perhaps they will read my work, but never will they know that it was written for them. 

            A girl sits across from me in the bus. She has a pearly complexion, eyes as blue and as wide as a porcelain dolls, and blonde ringlets. Never will I caress her cheek or trace my fingers across her protruding vertebrae. I will never have the opportunity to breathe in the aroma of her skin while I tenderly kiss her swan neck. Does she have a family? A brother? A sister? Why do I care, I will never meet them even if she did. 

My theory sounds absurd and terribly lonely to any sensible man or woman. However, I am not without reason. My tribulations and doleful existence has rendered me unable to experience intimate love for a person who I hold close to my heart. In fact, I am convinced I posses no heart. Between my rib cages, there is only a empty chasm of nothingness. This void is a vacuum inside of my body. My lungs are black, my cheeks are yellow and sallow, and my figure is cadaverous. As my body continues to deteriorate, I cease to exist.

  I do not love you anymore. I never did love you. How can I love when there is no heart beneath my breast?