When glass fogs,
And I see her prints,
(Those flat and cold smear fossils),
I know they're oval ghosts,
Or bodies.
Lonely remnants,
Of
Some girl,
Some body,

    

Just that,
No more.

But the prints, they stay.
Long after the funeral bouquet
Decayed by her grave.
After it became more difficult to be brave,
Day by day, until
I couldn't, or
I can't, because
This struggle doesn't end
Until it's over.
We bleed, are broken
And grow older,
Burdened by the inherited blame
That we shoulder.
We are so many lost, adrift,
Darkly hidden from rescuing planes and ships,
     Yet,
Deep in our abysmal rift,
I found the peak of existence,
Resting on her gold petal lips.
I lived more in the moments she blessed me with,
Than I have lived ever since
And if I could choose, I would live in my youth
With her,

Just that,
No more.






*Critiques are very much appreciated.