Epilogue

There is a kind of love
drifting so cold,
like a shattered blanket of
dormant bergs on a pale and
aching flow.

It is a sorrowing timber,
still clinging to a distant
memory
of the transcendent hues
lost
during a choking winter

The phoenix has burst free,
through the healing hole in my chest.
The trail of flame and ash
leaves me a shaking shell;
a hollow melody.

I am still magnetized
to your awful scent.
A love entrenched,
resonating beyond the crust
and into the core of my cratered Earth.

This kind of love settles.
A clog of bitterness and lustful blight,
dragging me further into a drowning clutch.

I’m left with nothing
except a soulless sapphire,
on a cloud of feigning grasps
and blank utterances.

It’s dwindling,
but I cough up
a dewdrop of our once blissful cadence
into the snow globe of
my own reticence.

This love is almost spent;
a candle using the last
reaches of strength
to whimper and wane,
culled by time
and asphyxiated by a vacant space.

This empty love,
oh, what shame.