She could fix me. She could give me everything I want. My sickly personage beckons for a cure, and she is the antidote, for I but an empty fool without her. In solitude all I am is a body with no soul, a skull with no brain, a rotten corpse not flora nor fauna dare touch for fear of disease. She is my life itself; she is the light that makes it shine, yet she has callously left me suffering in eternal enmity.
My life has all but been a derelict search. Every corner has been swept, every interstice examined. Every nook and cranny observed and every cushion overturned has produced a dismal null void, agape and all-consuming. My heart torn, stitched, and torn again in a torturous perpetual cycle, an ouroboros that devours faster than grows. The burning candle crawls closer to extinction. The sun, ruler of the skies, still inches toward inevitable twilight.