Dea lucis reliquit terrae

So this is the death of our story.

We were overdue for a blessing,

bent and shaken out of shape

by the bullshit we endorsed,

so it's about time we foreclosed

on this shack, no more shacking up,
no more picking up our teeth in the street,

no more toll booths to enter the garden,
no waiting for the great dream to erupt,
no intolerable distance or circumstance.
I breathe you out of me.

At the passing of a train,

I see you cross your legs
with a smile

at the end of the line.
This is where I get off.

The moment is mine.

When your name drifts

out of my mouth in wisps,

I see the silver halo

of winter breath and air

crowned above you,

and I have made it mine.

Holding you in the water,

in the brief panic

before the plunge,

we are weightless.

Recollections of you

can only be used against me,
and despite my advisors

I have been exhausting my memory.

You say you'll remember me.

The only way anyone will believe that

is if you offer proof of purpose.
Prove you have something to lose.
I have seen this twice now:
from one set of arms to another,
from one ride at the fair to another.

Once you discover a cocoon

that won't stick it to you,

you can fight that legion

of demons, the ones that have
not forgotten you.

The demons that make you

bash your head against the
brick wall, that breed suspicion,

that let loose the hell-fire

of hypocrisy, the demons

that cause you to pout, tantrum, 

vomit, slum it, stuff it, 

make a sham out of it.

O insidious sweetheart.

Dressed like a flower girl

at Death's wedding,
down the aisle you walk
dripping from the saliva
of hot-blooded hounds,
flipping your hair,
enchanted
by the radiance of your decay.

For six months 

you did not bother knowing 

if there was another life

in store for us.

If it existed, you said,

by now it's dead.

Our story sweats

such savage rancor.

If I could cash in

on any karma

that I have collected,

I would throw it all down

to never hear your voice again.

As a half-learned astronomer,
I am sufficient

at connecting the dots.

Your constellation 

has become a blot

on the skyline,

graffiti on the wall

of a greater promise,

and a deep well

to draw from 

in droughts of apathy.

I have heard reports

of happiness

down the shore,

where she feels joy

beneath her tongue,

where the tulips

tangle in her hair,

where her skin prickles

and thighs quiver

and diamonds sail
out of her eyes.

Transparent as the soul

and just as unfailing,

her dress gives way to the waves.

She takes to the sky 

like a bird frightened to flight.

And you would not love to love her.