love is like oxygen

...then I should be death and no fumbling around listening sad songs. I should feel relief, but i can not find it in others arms, or in others nipples, or in others vaginas, or in a night of debauchery, or in the warmth of other lascivious lips, even in the uncertainty of a residual love.

There is no solace, only the uninhabited touch of certains sheets and duvets inhabitans. To counter hand everything has got lost, and I grabbed the railing of my sanity, but my fingers are slipping, my fingers are slipping... i need oxygen...