When the smoke clears and the
flames come to a cease, I'll
remember why I left your
crimson slashed love and
smothered everything beneath
the grave.  

There was a time when I'd do
anything for you and inhale all
of the storms that swayed your
way, taking in the anger and pain
so that my sweet love could rise
and smile, glorify all the bright
stars across the horizon,
illuminating the moon and the
supreme gods and goddesses above.  

I was your melody, the synchronized
saxophone soothing your mind,
brightening your thoughts and feelings
on a warm summer day.  I was
your peace and freedom in perfect
Paris, taking you around the world
and showing you the adventures
that you'd never seen before.  

The days when we'd walk down
the seamless cityscape, embracing
the beauty and poetry surrounding us,
the brilliant art highlighting the
landscape.  And when night came,
the gleaming sky over our blossoming
bodies, jazzy city lights shining upon
our mansion, we'd cuddle in the bed,
thin sheets draped over our sweaty skin,
reminiscing on our future dreams.  

But your love came to a frozen standpoint.  
There was leakage running rampant
in the drains, slimy salad, cole slaw,
and stale coffee rising in the dank air.  
The pungent smell was clogging
my throat and spinning every part of
my dynasty off course.

The conjunctions were colliding
into crashed consonants, jammed
prepositions and burnt gerunds,
scorched syllables suspended
in dead dimensions.  And as I
tried to reassemble the broken
pieces in the late-night hours,
I soon realized that everything
within your volcanic galaxy
was too far out of my reach,
a radioactive mountain waiting
to explode at any moment.