No matter how you say it, it’s still the same.
Material means nothing
in this state
but mere imagery.
Twisted fabrication.
Perhaps beauty
that could never outshine
the true picture.
I am more than being nice.
Nice doesn’t take
too much heart
when falsity is it’s best act.
It shines.
Perspires on the very surface
of love.
Exudes eternal.
You will never hear
that from these lips.
Offering excuses of circumstance
censoring possibility.
Take heart,
if in mixed verse
it’s one day plain to see.
Like this sickness
inside me
sweet
(er)
than any words sworn
in such insistancy.
Out of necessity.
With tongue less spoken
“J’aime tu”
Beautiful, Sheila, I really missed reading your writes,
I love the first and last french line. 
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