There she comes, dressed in white, illuminating the Hera-Temple-Huge hall of our wedding. Of our Happiness. Of our Jolliness. That gait of hers though. Wooowee (as the wise professor poopybutthole of south park says). She treads on the ground so lightly...as if she's stealthing her way to snatch the The Hope Diamond...Oh my diamond of hope how graceful you are with the way you talk, you walk, you express, you profess. They way you speak, and the way they blush, I mean your chubby sweet cheeks. You smile and all I see are your pearly teeth, touched by a shimmer of yellow that adds fuel to the fire of my heart (but seriously you should quit smoking.)
There she comes, dressed in...damn, I just repeated myself. Cursed be your beautiful, your chastity, your white skin that drives to insanity. Cursed be the femtosecond that my peripherals caught you, dragging the rest of my eyes to your slender frame, as if a rope is pulling them towards you and aim, a rope no God nor Human can resist, The Lasso of Truth that is. Oh my Wonder Woman, here you are in front of me (what a goddamn long aisle she walked. I was running out of words Jesus Christ.) She looks at me with the same gaze she captured my heart with, a gaze of love blended with...my fury, my hate, and my embattled feelings.
I hate the dream and curse who ever created this thing. Dreams they say "Hold fast to dreams, for if dreams die, life is a broken-winged bird that cannot fly." Well Mr. Hughes, I don't think you ever lived this dream. Fell in love with this girl. Been tortured from love. Been dealt a bad hand in life that cost you to lose your card game. To be or not to be, that's not the question. She loves me, she love me not, that, dear confused reader, is the question. I despise this dream. I despise my eyes for yearning for sleep, and my brain for yearning for wake. I hate my imagination for igniting at the thought of her and my heart for beating only for her. God, should you exist, take me away to the land of your Milk and Honey, take to your skies of Sweet Summer and Warm Winter, to your paradise, where I sit on by your rivers, but don't let dream this goddamn dream again. If that's the deal, no heaven shall host me, just throw me with the demons, maybe i'll find the answer I seek.
Too late God, I don't think this plan will work, for whether she lives or not, my tender heart shall yearn for her hug, her kiss, her touch or her clutch. Things my soul shall never taste, for which my broken wings shall never flap, rather flop in the abyss of broken hopes and dreams, where my flare for life, my yearn for love and my haste to passion shall ever reside.