On Love, Death, Hell and Heaven

Disclaimer: I don't own Kuroshitsuji/Black Butler.

Lately, I spend a lot of my time thinking. You would be surprised, which would not surprise me because I can't tell you any of the things I think about, and I can't comment on anything you say. You speak and I never hear your words, and I only know you're speaking because I'm watching your lips move. We have so much in common, that's what I think sometimes, but then I think that perhaps we have nothing in common, and I think that whenever I realize the facts- and the fact is that I don't know you. I don't know you, I've never felt your soul although I know it must be something special, and that's something we both have but can never understand because maybe you're a different brand of special. I don't know, I don't know, I don't know you and I don't know what you think about or who you think about or what is important to you. And I don't know why it took me so long to realize this, and I think maybe it's because I thought I knew you. I thought I understood you, I thought I could manipulate you, cheat you, step on you, beat you, I thought I knew you enough to want you, to hate you.

But I don't know you, and that's why you're different from every other predictable aspect of my life. You don't want anything from me and I can't understand it. You have hell at your side and on your hands, you wear hell like it runs through your blood and you know hell so well, well enough to command it and to make it yours and somehow when you speak you sound like heaven. Somehow when I look in the eye you let me see, half the window to your soul, I don't see hell there. Your hair falls slightly in your face and it falls like heaven and I have to think, I have to ask, I have to know if maybe we all start out like heaven and we never really let go, even after we're in hell.

And I guess I thought I saw myself, I thought my hell was like yours, but when I look in the mirror and I know that even hell couldn't love me I wonder how you could possibly be both.

Tell me your secrets and teach me how to be so perfect, show me how you could possibly play Love like a puppet with Death for strings. You played the game I've played since childhood and you mastered it where I still let it slip between my fingers if I'm not cautious. We play hell and death like chess and my pieces love you more than they fear me and I watch you and I wonder how someone can have so much hate and so much love and so much life when all you live for is death and I think: why are you still alive and why are you so much better at doing it?

And I realize I really know nothing about you, and I realize you are more than anyone deserves, and I realize you're the only thing in life that I wish I understood, and I realize that I don't care if the world burns because not even Hell's fire can touch your skin.