Our love is a flame.
Flickering as ‘trouble’ uproars upon us.
Burning out when wind grows robust.
Black swirls dematerialize into the air, as if no second existed of prevailing passion.
The ponderous scent still lingering in the blackness; nebulous remains of a love turned cold.
A dusty old candle, situated on a shelf of lost treasures.
The only recognition, a spider steadily making a home out of an arduous love that was never anything more than frivolous.


(S.j.R)