If your embrace were a chrysalis.
I would weather callous frosts - or die inside.
A madrigal, slow-breathing.
Your pale
shoulders and flow of hair.
Solitude, what have you done?
My lifeless fingers trace the surface.
For these lines exist in lithic
memory.
In colonnades where light, weight, and form.
Shatter like a thousand breaking bones.
Above a sea of twisted
limbs.
What have you done?
f**k your beautiful world.
The doubt in your heart made no amends.
The doubt in your heart left
nothing for me.
I often return to the frozen ground where I laid with you.
When I gaze across the fields I understand the beauty of
dying leaves.
And why the dying trees reach to touch a faraway sun.
And why I have become a forlorn wreck of fleeting
intangibles.
My better nature scorched in the crucible that is you.
I hate.
Yearn.
Despair.
And lust.
Desire, what have
you done?
What have I become?
I am nothing.
I am nothing.
Nothing.