the first time,
the last time,
i would like to sleep
in your arms again, darling

pray away my sins with your lips,
fingers intertwined with mine
and whisper gospels into my ear
as we explore our celestial altar's in worship-
in hopes that i may be purified once more

say my name like a prayer on your lips,
hands clasp in worship,
and kneel before my body-
to worship as your altar

write me a tragedy
and i'll write the tale of you and i-
i will build you cathedrals and palaces of words
and burning infernos of our love-
leave trails of ash onto each page
and give us a bittersweet end
so that you may realize the words i spill out will burn you-
that to love a poet- to love me-
i make my tragedy yours

do not waste your breath on me.
do not waste your words on me.
do not waste your hymns or prayers on me.
do not waste your time or energy on me.
leave me be, let me rest,
let me become forgotten- erased
buried in my garden of death.

leave me in the garden to die.
i will not let you save me-
leave me alone with the dead leaves of autumn,
with the coldness of winter settling in my bones.
i don't want to be saved-
leave me along the dead and decayed
and come back to bury me in the spring.
i have left to find death,
to pick it's flowers and to finally rest.

its a tragedy, you know.
that he looks at you as if he's the sun
and you still burn him,
sending him with wax coated wings
beneath the seas.