An action to surrender
will continue our lesson
to always remember
that love stretches beyond
when silence falls
upon a devoted heart.

Pain comes through
as a growing stain,
among these immaculate
puddles, where a reflection
ought to always reveal
all I've concealed.

I beg to be released,
to be understood for a wrong
I've been challenging.

I beg to be noticed
even as a ghost in your
bedroom of shadows.

When I write,
shrouded in silence,
I have been merged
in surrounding white.
I have sunken
this form of mine
in pages, for surrender
to be how I remember.

Losing time,
not wishing for recovery
when it will stop this heart
from chasing a different,
absent beat.

An hour hand
holds the minute hand,
severing itself into pieces,
while the second hand
reveals moments I have stolen,
under a solid blue sky.

I've often receded
with these tears, back into
shadows of past moments,
digging into scars,
redrawing the wounds,
lifting a heaving chest
to drag it back down
with the setting sun.

Coming into your light
had been a forged destiny,
but I'll never know
what I ever meant,
when arms are broken,
being unable to fix
what is lost.

When I said to you
I'll never float apart
from your once-yearning
distant heart,
I felt it in the call
of birds in the trees,
as I allowed myself
to walk forward,
even if it led me
over the edge.

Here I am
to drink in stillness,
to remember you
in your frozen state.
I released a hand,
as you are at peace,
as I am here
to let go of a petal
for your cemented,
sealed place.

We must believe
that nighttime is not
as divided from its partner,
unified with daylight's
immaculate garb.

We must fold
the pages of our stories
into an eternal pause,
remembering how
desertion was avoided.

We will love,
savoring the days
for their hours,
capturing our hours
for an infinity.

Revolve around
three-dimensions.
Admire her
while she sounds,
when she spills
sighs from varnished,
abandoned lips.

Two steps
is all it ever takes
to turn intimidation
into presentation.
Letting arms
be her branches,
crossing about
layer after layer
of milk-white flesh.

What gets brought back
is a shower of hope,
trickling over resplendence
down our aching backs.

We never believed in it
for long enough,
while we were drying
our vacant eyes.

Everything matches
in these dark hallways.
All of it withers,
while we go on,
with burning fingers
leaving piles of dust
on abandoned highways.

Relaying a message,
receiving failure, once more
in its futile attempt.

I've been waking up
to hear your call,
screaming in the silence,
pacing after the expression
of unmatched violence.

What can I wield,
if not a torch to illuminate
all walls in this heart?

Contemplative, but not
reversing your unkind
direction, back into
salvation's representation.

You wither, while you
are nourished from rain,
stamping your retreat
in countless footprints.

Will you ever rephrase
how you've demonstrated
your desire to seal
all that's been revealed?

You see in one direction,
noticing a glimmer, in vanity.
You lock your words
upon deceit's grave comfort.
You've smelled the iron
coming from blooming wounds,

but nothing keeps you
from surrendering this disguise.

Nothing keeps you
from embracing a falsehood.
In the other direction,
you've walked a long line,

but has it distracted you
from where you never shine?

Being repulsed,
vowing words of silver,
to be sculpted
in different ways,

but nothing keeps you
from cornering your uncertainty.

No one else can breathe
for you, while you are
bleeding before everyone.

Another way
to switch this array
of limitless colors
into a sprawl of gray.
It has become enough
to see it, as it was,
with nothing but air
to provide our touch.

What were we saying
when we were surveying
the vastness of these ruins?
Fire has always been
our light, after we ignored
what it was destroying.

Fire has now brought
attention to our wounds,
before feeling the pain.

We cannot continue,
burning when we walk,
leaving ashen footprints
for ghosts to follow.

We must surrender,
believing in the end
that was always near.

We must not suffer,
after all we'll divorce.
We'll lead our sickness
to its beautiful grave.

I've built a raft,
waiting for the stars
to come out from
a universe that breathes
emptiness over this
nameless ocean.

I've been watching
the letters become one
intoxicating promise,
while I've searched
for resolve,
under the doubt.

Whispering comes,
leaving needless destinations
for our feet to find
when we are always
crying on the shoulders,
where the temptations
decide where we
want to hide.

Love blows
in different directions
its sterile seeds,
raising nothing more than
husks to create more of
those familiar shadows.

For we will be
always yearning to
discover what we
were not meant to believe,
remaining lost on a highway
that never upkeeps speed.

Wanting saviors
to dispel the same whispers
we both turned our attention to,
dividing our forms down,
from the head
to our aching gut.

Whispering will cease,
after we've recognized that this
was never a treasure to kiss.
We believed in miracles
when all we received
are the same scraps
to feed desperate hearts.