some days the sunset is permanent, it's foreseeable.
it's all soiled with a deep amber, the skies, the pink walls,
the long shadows on the ground.
city smells in the air, soft bergamot scent from his black hair,
november rain.

in those days you are bereft, it's foreseeable.
love is remembered and withered, out of the scene, and tears are no more.
his trembling sigh a lament,
your hot tears a passion so fervent,
your doleful detriment.

they said life is beautiful,
but you have tasted heaven once, and they haven't,
and you believed it was something inside of him,
has awakened something carnal and ancient,
yet you knew he wasn't of heavens,

only one of the transience fragilities of earth,
but this was paradise to you.

you wanted to believe life is beautiful,
but his moan was a mourn to all the lighter things
you have lost in life,
and for that, your happiness is not easy.
you lost something in this life and it's found until it's no more.

you knew this, despite a paradise was transient, and colored of flame,
it's a paradise, still.

life is beautiful but it grows blue, grey, crimson, pink.
and some days it's a permanent sunset,
in those days there are shadows of heaven on earth, you see,
his shadows lengthening on the ground
bleeding into the lights, everywhere.