Guilty Pleasures

Girl, how many ashes of baked pictures have fought the scars you brew from affaire d'honneur [our routinely arguments]? Your sister heart fought the noisy lust the untamed night hone on her shoulder as she collect the dishes of mockery & smashes it towards the fireman that paints the tragedies of conflict. Girl, when i missed you I chew memories of you wreath with enough rancour that never made it into the pages of your heart; the goldberg of my sublime tears. Girl, will you stagger into my dream & ruin the grief that wake before me when I'm drunk with my favourite beer the chatter of 'i miss you?' These guilty pleasure are taking hold of us our children will be weeping from the future with lyrics garnish to blare my ears. Do the ever get to you through the touch of the winds knowing truly that we were wrong? [Hold/h??ld; transitive verb]