Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory—
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.
Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heaped for the belovèd’s bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on
— Percy Bysshe Shelley
Our kiss, and then our kisses were beyond reason; they were really and truly utterly otherworldly
Soul meets soul on lovers’ lips.
And why, why in the name of the devil, of god and James Dean does this have to be the fucking way? Are we so bloody damn stupid, so flippant when all’s roses? Why the fucking hell can’t we appreciate the priceless things whilst they’re within our grasp; why the fuck must we lose something to be able to realise its true value? Rosie Lee, you have my Strawberry tart, it will be with you until the day it ceases to beat. Period. Full stop. End of. Immutably so.
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.