this is not a tale of star crossed lovers.

Heathcliff, I tire of using allusions to describe
how the chill of your wind haunts me at night
and sends shivers down my vertebrae
when you breathe on my neck,

but I tire of Linton's feeble advances,
and his blandness makes me miss the wilderness
of the rooftops we ran around on top of;
tangled limbs woven together
with whatever our souls are made of.

Somewhere, I know you are out there
and even if you are on the other side of my aura,
I can feel you conquering my heart so hard
I swoon and can't help but be reminded
how spineless he is by comparison.

I miss your chivalry; being wound up
in our antagonistic arguments that echoed
the same way that your gasps resound in the canals
of my aural sensitivities like a synesthetic high so elevated
I can hear your lips nibbling on the edges of my ears.

There are moments where I despair,
watching how you are caught so desperately
in the death throes of your fervent addiction
to the denomination that grips your throat so tightly
you can't help but stray from faithfulness to me,
so I remain choked-up on nights like this
where I paint your face with my words
so I can see you when I dream.