as the last of the thorns are removed from my hand
and the blood congeals like pudding on a stove
and the heart slows to a methodical beat
of one resigned to the approaching day
the sound of still darkness is deafening
stars stare in mock silence
taunting me as they defer to the moon
'her moon' as she called it
how she grieved over the death of its secrets
more so than the coming death of our own
beautiful
secret
which breathed in the magic of the darkness
and found us together
always
in each other's light
as the Sun approached

I drop these roses here
you would always say it was such a waste
'flowers for my love'
but your eyes would not lie