I run for pain, the excruciating burn of desire. I burn for the exquisite absence of thought.
You; the girl in the pigtails, the one with the masks, the hidden knife; we are fading into nothingness, like the prettiest of sunsets- fading into the next, the next one, the one after, until there's nothing left of us.
Take my hand, and I promise you art. You will be the canvas of my prose. I'll dip my pen into the ink of your eyes, and engrave myself onto your heart.