it is the dawn of this inamorata.
  
          love is
          the dew
          dropping onto
          the soul,
          takes in it
          silence would,
          a cacophonous
          trace of song.
          love is
          written,
          for love is
          born
          to the
          structure
          of a
          rose.

it is the dusk of this inamorata.

          love is frittering
          back to the inconsolable
          noise, trickles
          back to rivers
          and onto
          the unseen,
          the fading out
          to smallness
          of which flame
          lets go,
          a solitary ember.
          love has emerged
          with hands empty,
          poised to cull
          this structure
          of a
          rose.