I have to believe that in the frail light
Of this ever darkening night
That our silhouettes will somehow escape.
Will run away from us,
From this place
Of harsh words
And sharp realities.
These words which currently impale me
Cast no shadow,
So they must not be real
Or more so less real than you and me sitting here.
Gazing at each other
As lovers do.
Perhaps, though we may end
And dissipate into the thickening air,
Our shadows may maintain some sort of secret love affair.
Perhaps our silhouettes may remain star-crossed lovers
Running away to meet under moonlight.
So even though there is finality on your breath
And a chill running across the absence your hand left on my chest
I have to believe
That there must still be a remnant of you in love with me.

I don't write poetry
I write emotions and experiences
interpreted as demented delusions
heartbreak and heartwake
mindsets and trivial stories
from the past, present or a predicted future
deciphered in to something meant to explore
it's all the same without a brain
to make the words written more than words
a poet only does half of the work
your emotions, your experiences,
your delusional interpretations,
your heartbreak, your mindsets
your past and your personality create the poetry
what you take from it is unique
a little piece of someone else
just for you