He looks in your eyes quite seriously.
You see a light in them. More. A fire which once gave light profusely
Dying, but warm nonetheless in those frigid moments of loneliness.
He leans in after softly touching his nose to yours, with a certain degree of finesse.
Your heart tries to not stop but it does until he rests his hand on your thigh.
He asks you to breathe his name but all you can do is sigh

Hm.

It's that time again.
I utilise the block button,
Block out her and my memories,
The epitome of futility.

It is time I write,
For strangers to hear.
Of my endeavours and my pain
So someone validates me,
Gives me reason to be sane.

But then again this shall be the last,
Of the times I have held her back.
This habit I'll let go,
Little stagnant flower, I'll let you grow.

Imprint on skin,
Imprint on a pane.
The One on my chest, her grace;
The Other fades sans trace.

My toes fail to curl in the concrete beneath,
Tears unfurl as I yearn for the Beach.
My nose bleeds, infiltrated by gas, smoke and dust;
The sting of saline odor gone; eyes dry, for Brine I lust.
I swim in a Sea but of a different kind, stretching far out before me,
Schools of myriad Fishes crossing roads, circumventing my being.
But there is only One true sea, the Sea behind my Home,
The Sea where I lost a sister, A mirror on which the moon shone.
The Sea sighing and whispering, its waves the only lullaby I knew,
On its beach, golden sand and memories of a woman I made love to.

So I swim and I come up for air,
For air that smells of death,
Not of Brine.
Until I lay to rest, like
My sister in her watery grave
In this concrete Sea of mine.

She weaves, a river of black,
Flowing from her lap,
The current increasing with each thread
Of satin, of black drops pouring out
From her fingers.
The walls smell of dye,
home to a spider,
In its web a beetle caught.
Murky pools of wax indicate
Where illumination was sought.
In this dark and dingy Hut,
The weavemistress carries on,
A lonesome life but filled with joy,
Of creating what was not from
Mundane items like skin and cloth.
With none to look out for,
And none to look for her,
She finished her masterpiece,
The last design she had to offer.
In silence and in peace,
In resignation and in a need
To mark the final creation
With a final deed.


Magdalena bared herself,
Poised before the window reflecting
The candles
And her haunted frame,
She adored herself as
She adorned herself
With her Gown of Black,
Feeling no regret, feeling no shame.
And to celebrate,
She lit a fire
Poured wine,

Not to the wood,
Not in a glass.
But to the Gown
And on the walls.

The cost of Patience,
Is the hours of silence.
The breaking of a heart,
The distortion of common sense.

Its cost,
Is the screams one swallows.
The words that die,
Their meaning hollow.

Its cost,
Is an eternal hunt.
To find shelter from an attempt
To resolve or confront.

Its cost,
Is the tumor filled of thoughts,
Pulsing under the skin,
Of a Man distraught.

The cost of Patience,
Is an Eternal Agreement.
To be and to let be,
Condemned to be in confinement.

Swallow whole
Obsidian Heart
Never for it to see
The light of the world.
Cold
Wrapped in Her blood
Away from the heat
The venom unnfurls.
River
Plasma boat beneath
To be carried
Over the ice red churn.
Obsidian Heart
Was Absorbed by Her
Lady Snake
Writhing in pleasure.