I could sit beside your tombstone for hours,
and reminisce that you are with me there.
I'd fill my hands with purple flowers
and place them into your scarlet hair,
and you'd laugh like a thousand golden church bells
as we whisper promises without giving tomorrow care.

We could talk alone 'til midnight
about the things we were too afraid in life to say.
I could sit beside you bathed in silver starlight,
all the while dreading the yellow day,
when the white hot sun banishes the ghost of you
and takes our sweet whispered words away.

The wisps of smoke that were your form, my lasting heart's delight;
I'll bend the wind in my hands and pull them close, if it could make you stay...
But that's for another conversation,
another tombstone,
another day.

I'm not in love...                                                    not even a little
  but                 I want                                        to be                       in
love so                    badly.                       My heart                    aches
to feel                                that kiss; that breath                       of life
   that                                 we poets call love in                     an awed
       whisper.                                                         ­                 But...
                Love
                    ­   refuses                                                          ­      The hole
                                to                          ­                                   in              my
                                   show                                                             ­  heart
                                            her face. So my heart                        is
                                 ­                has a hole in it.                              a
                                                                ­                                         Q
                                                               ­                                           u
                    ­                                                                 ­                      e
                                                               ­                                             s
                  ­                                                                 ­                          i
                                                               ­                                              o
                                                               ­                                                               
                                                                ­                                             n.

                                            Where are you, Love?

Violets are purple, and roses are red.
Because romance and the color blue are somehow different tonight.
On this one day of the year, the refractions of light
aren't bent to the left, romance just tends to mess with our heads.
So, what I'm saying is, this year let's just watch Netflix instead.
Because why be blue on Valentines day, amirite?

"Forgive me, Lord, for I have sinned."
I whisper to the empty halls by holy candle's light.
The stones of the church are cold on my bare knees,
like my bare heart, bared before you: My brother. My knight.
My Lord to Shepard me in the darkness. "Guide me from the night..
Hallowed be thy name, forgive me my transgressions in your sight."
I whisper again, and beg for my trespasses retribution or salvation;
I've stopped caring which came my way long ago, though I'm contrite.

"You see... Lord... I've failed in many ways. I'm not the brother or son
that I need to be. I've lost my path, if not my faith, and my only consolation
now are my tears, my cigarettes, and my shattered heart's remaining love.
Forgive me for the harm I've done, though I know my prayers are not enough.
I know I don't deserve it, but by grace of God above,
I hope to be a better man, instead of this drawn out sin my life's become..."

And by the altar, I cry.
And my bare knees and bared heart are by this time cold,
frozen by uncaring flagstones, and by your love that you withhold.
Sinners go to Hell below, that's what Sister Mary told
me when I was young and full of light,
and innocent and oh so bold,
and when in my heart I didn't have so much fright,
and such a raging fire that burns so cold,
in sadness and felicity from the grasp of the Devil in my soul.

But for all my faith, and for all your love,
I'm still going to rage
and spit
and claw
and fight,
even when I know that my side's not near in the right,
and even when my heart is stained and uncontrolled,
So I kiss the cross and wish my hopes for a better life goodnight.
"Thanks for listening, Jesus." I whisper, but in my sinner's heart so cold,
I wonder... Can he hear me? Or am I, as I feel it now, alone?

What pain it is to live and die;
to close mortal lives with mortal ends.
Recycled lives mimic their predecessors ennui,
and in the end, no one truly struggles; there is no dying cry;
Life leaves at the speed of wind; in a mundane sigh.

And then he brings with him the gentle kiss;
and that sigh passes in reverse across those lips
and extraordinary in her sin,
the ordinary breathes again.

And what blasphemy it is to breathe again
and again that final martyr's breath.
Recycled through lungs that do not open,
seeing with eyes that do not close, though wept
in tears of delicious blood and ***** unearned sweat.

She cries those tears of blood, and they fall to her mouth.
And she screams, but no sound can be heard coming out.
And she writhes, and he holds her in his arms with such tender love.
And she lives her stolen life in a dance macabre and barren of
that ordinarity; that beautiful mundane comfort that brought her such redoubt.

And he holds her, sharing in her pain and loss.
He knows the worth of a life long past its expiration date.
But he cannot condone himself to suffer alone on his lonely cross,
so he kisses her again, sharing that martyr'd gift, hoping his hunger will sate.
But it never is.

So they continue their dance, and give all they can give.
And they share in their duality; the finality of their lonely breath.
He aches for the piety of a life unlived;
She weeps for a visit from an angel of death.