It is hard to write in pictures, when you appear in sounds
How the damask light seeps through awning head space
When halcyon winter days end in minutes,
and you disappear everyday, without fail
Is it cruel that death and love are so mutually aligned
or is it bitter contempt of love that makes it appear so
Could you love me in death as I loved you in life
and is it on that pretense that your only answer is no?