Waiting.
Swallowed by ochre sheets,
watching you
reveal the stars playing under your paper skin,
Outshining the voyeur streetlights
peering through my
windowpane.
Calling
like sirens of melted viridian
from the shores of my doom.
Drifting,
(apparition? wraith? spirit?)
your halo of fire
splayed along my bed
Illuminated.
Moving
to the tempo
of telltale hearts
Conducting
an orchestra of motion
Strings and tendons stretched
Vibrating in harmony
Two frail bodies
Colliding
in the night, louder than
the most impressive percussion
Holding the last note on
a heavenly fermata
And the conductor never said stop.
Ringing
from the concert hall
bedroom like the sigh
sounded from a thousand
symphonic suns.
Fading
in the evanescent eruption.
The tendrils of night
Weaving
dread threads
into our heartstrings and
Plucking
their sour tune -
maiming our melody
and
hacking our harmony
til the piano
was but firewood
to an empty flame.