You can keep my heart, in a jar.

She is only another mystery to myself: a comet that ran from home far above our heads and out of sight in just my eyes, a deer grazing aside the road we trail upon that I happen to miss just before it frights and scurries back into the wood. Mouths form varied phrases and mold them into something of difference ere shoving such past my ear drums and onto my mind's frame. Nonetheless, each tangles its arms and legs round what they can in order to choke the very blood from my brain, until I finally spill my befuddled being onto the floor, the entirety of world neglecting in the catch of any and all its weight.

For at the universe's center awaits such charm of a girl, one those have titled amazing and beautiful and perfect. When I perceive of no human close as the delighted demon paces liquid circles round what used to be my own, pecking its left cheek with drunken irises that float and swim within the current of all that he is. And I desire an act of screaming, weeping, ripping handfuls of auburn locks from my very scalp.

For I cannot win and I will not win, in no matter which of what I can/could act much finer than she. Seeing as this is no longer and was never a fair game, with the world altogether betting against me.

All I know of her are the beds of paint which lie like dirt beneath her finger nails, of her imperfections merely perfecting her into what I could never become, and of her stealing not once but twice from me all I can never willingly unwind from being carried by such possession I own, that has truly already ceased in existing.

Every evening he will continually abandon his work and return only to her, for several reasons I do not know, when he left his home inside my heart years ago. Whereas her arms may shield him from foul weather as any house should, they will/can never comfort his being in the ways that I could,

dooming himself just as much so as I will ever be.

Merely for another mystery that will soon be solved into what it truly always was:
less than that of which he genuinely desires,
leaving his time spent into more past, palms dirty with what acts,
in searching inside of her for all lying inside of me.