Untying myself,
rewiring my mind
after I've been
burning to keep
this sundered form
from disbelieving.

We wanted what
we never revisited,
choosing instead
to seek silence
under a moon,
under the sun
during noon.

Hope has died,
after trembling hands
have clutched a number
of faded roses.

Both of us,
both invisible,
neither beautiful,
were once waiting
near a window
stained with time.

What is there
to return to,
once we have
said our farewell
to the last teardrop?
The teardrops
that have formed
rivers to follow.

What else is there
to live for, while we
are far too busy
removing the dagger
from our hearts?