If I could run,
Like I did when I was a child,
I suppose I would already be gone.

And if this barely beating heart was not
Already blackened like moonless night,
I suppose I would still be named fool.

And if fire was forgiven,
Perhaps it would have burnt that house
To the ground, killing hope.

Then again, maybe it is true what they
Say about the burn becoming addictive,
Maybe that is why I still dare at love.

Who now will call forth
the flowers from the grave,
the dancing willows,
the fallen sweet maple.

Who now will name
the smiling ruins
which once were held together
by strong hands of forgotten men.

Who now remembers
the taste of summer
so deep into a winter
which taught us to love the dark.

Who now can still speak of
the clattering secrets
whispered to the winds
that can no longer hug the sails.

Who now dares to say
that these time were better
and more holy than the
days waiting to consume us whole.

Who now wishes
to share the simplicity
of the storybook endings
where nobility still strongly reigns.

In another life, I would name you lover,
On my soul, I would carve your name,
let my arms be unswaying walls,
my chest a resting place for your weary head.

In this life, we would be more than poems
written with an unsteady heart and shaking hands.
In this life, I would be the type of man
a woman like you could love.

Here we would not dance on the tip
of a knife daring it to cut, daring it
to shred away the ugly bits.
In this world, our hands would fit together perfectly.

Know, I write these words, not in hope
that you will understand the roaring of
this fire which burns inside of me,
but in hope, you will forgive me for letting you go.

I will not say we were young and foolish
we knew where we were shooting,
but who would have guessed these arrows would
have made a home in our hearts.

And who would have guessed we would
be squeamish at the sight of blood?
Maybe though in another life
we will find redemption for our sins.

Love is dead.
We have killed her.
Unclean hands grasp
at blacken throats.
No room left in
this world for love.
Let her pale hand go.
You wanted this.
Remember?

How strange is it, cruel Fate,
that the stories you write for me
never end as poetically
As the ones, I have written for you.

I may not be Icarus, but I know
what it feels like to be consumed.
Though I am sure that he once loved
the sun too, before you penned his poem.

Spring snow does not endure,
it is not in its nature to stay,
just like Icarus and
just like me.