Not Heart-broke

I'm a criminal if you choose to embark upon the fact that I've hoarded her memories in a clean, unperturbed and reserved corner of my mind for ages. How I came to be, I can't remember. But I remember how her words mixed into my blood. How every moon I saw since then was but a trivial representation of her immortal sheen, resting casually between the recesses of my hollow mind.
Every dream I see is not about her. And I take it as an erratic judgement on the part of myself, for Dreams spell desire; and torn between the aims of Achievement and Love, my subconscious has behaved as if it'd just one option. Her touch trickled down from my skin to my soul, and I've never touched anything since.
To put it in words of wisdom isn't wise at all. It doesn't siphon out the perennial rivers relentlessly pumping through the cleavages of my heart. And yet my heart has suffered draught. It's never the irony that baffles me. Its the alliteration of her identity.
I've crunched lonely leaves beneath my feet. Leaves that had the privilege of dying again. I know they curse me. They have one soul less to curse, for now she doesn't walk with me. If it wasn't for her, I'd have grown wings to soar away into emptiness. But I want to long. No explaination of inertia can substitute for the pleasures I derive out of the sole stench of her freshness within me.
I'm not heart broke. And yet something rattles within me. The box of her memories. To miss her is poetry. To love her is grace.