We are alike, you and I
My dear
We never had much hope, did we?
The others
Never quite understood
What it was we were
What we had, in fact, become
But through all that sadness
All that emptiness and darkness
Nobody could see what you saw
And you saw such horror
For us, death was a dream
An unbroken promise
A secret only we could know
All the bloodshed and battles
Both won and lost
They didn’t matter anymore
We had found the key that fit the lock
One twist and we were free
An open door
To reveal what we were all waiting for
O but my dear
You never knew
And so you never will
You passed through that door
Before I could stop you
Before anyone could
And for so long I have craved to follow
To pass through that door
Like you had done before I could

i gravitate towards you
like a dusky desolate deposit of dirt
to its glimmering counterpart
of lapis lazuli, ridden with veins of gold

i reach and reach
to no avail
and i watch as you spin quickly away
stumbling and straightening before slipping into another stagnant spiral

how do i catch up to one
so quickly moving amongst the stars?
celestial bodies they may be
but i am a mere moon, reflecting light for your gaze

i can feel my muscles expanding and stretching
tendons taut with tension and
heart pounding and pounding away at the pavement
as i move forward and grasp outwards to you

but a mere millimeter of air becomes solid
and my knuckles crash against nothingness
instead of the warmth of your palm
which i'm not truly sure was even there to begin with

the darkness of this dying universe
is colder and more derelict than i have the capacity
to understand; and so i curl inwards
alone amongst pebbles and freely floating matter

because a moon without a planet
is simply an orb named vesta
or a goddess called hestia:
frequently forgotten and oft omitted
by those who claim to be scholars of myth, keepers of lore
and by extension, the very children she presided over
overseer of life and hearth nevermore.

I fall quite seldom, nowadays.
It's hard to love,
     when it's been stolen away.
Like the hands of time
     that rotate indefinitely.
I'll come back to you, my darling,
     next time, eternally.

A story of... Oh my!

Shall it start with I
and run across time?

Will it tell about sighs
and losses of sight?

Could it draw upon the tide
of a thirst that will not die?

Let it borrow instead your eyes,
let it not be told starting with I

for, into this story, adrift of present day,
strayed from the hearted I,

left to the sparse foam of time,
only dids and didn'ts will pour, no whys.

Passions are liken’d best to floods and streams:
The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb;
So, when affection yields discourse, it seems
  The bottom is but shallow whence they come.
They that are rich in words, in words discover
That they are poor in that which makes a lover.