I do not lament the clouds:
days like these don't deserve the sunlight;
skin so raw doesn't deserve to blister and blight.
A day that is built
for us to sit and watch the flowers wilt.

You let the silence speak for you
(as it tends to do.)
Love is a word that is hard to define
try hard enough and maybe you'll see that line
between the synapse and the feeling
between the prayer and the kneeling.
The difference between a spasm and desire,
a flashlight and a fire.
The difference between poetic words and idle chatter.
Yet all in all, none of this matters.

None of it matters when the moon looms over me
and no one is here to watch me bleed.
You can pluck the plant our sadness grew:
we fell in love, that much is true.
But things run so much deeper than this
and losing my kiss
won't fix any of this.

Since I know these words will be lost in the abyss
not to be read or cared for by your or by them,
I write without fear of infamy, and without any wish
of your hand in my hand ever again.

I am proud to say that you were once my lover:
we need lots of things, but we don't need each other.