The love between was escaping into
clogged gutters, each drilling sound
a shattered sound crumbling in fallen
syllables, a dangerous wave of
accelerations gone astray.  

The stark sun that used to shine
inside our bedroom window was
slowly backing away into closed
infinities, gridlocked gates, a chamber
of backdrop kingdoms.  

The scattered dishes overcrowding
the sink were filled with pain, lingering
in abandoned dreams, as I stared at
their smeared appearance, damaging
reflections driven stone cold grey.  

Burnt picture frames hung in a cell of
confined chains, drenched dungeons,
crouched corners, an empty existence
wrinkled and strained.  My heart was
frozen underground and shoveled,
stripped and scraped, a dragging
depiction like an old man, like
a slow ticking clock, like weather-beaten
tires.

I could see the blackened trees beating
against the windowsill, a smashed
soul growing numb in dull hours,
hopeless innocence, ghostly planes
of hazy boulevards, rusted bitten
leaves turning pale, as I stepped
towards the kitchen sink, my hands
pressed against the surface of the glass,
embracing the rotating rhythms of
bone breaking beats.