i am the moon
you are the sun
crossing paths
but always fading away

You always complained to me
How I never held your hand tight enough.

My mother once told me,
That like the warm sand
On the summer beach,
The harder you hold onto something,
The faster it slips from your fist.

And maybe that’s why
When your hand
was in mine
I would never close my fingers.

An attire of cadaver obsidian
      hangs upon the expiration

of every fluctuation.

Weaving sorrow on every passing.


Considering the folly of her motionless
                                  endeavour.

Her garb falters and  decomposes
              below her narcistic

                                                pondering.


She is neither Earth or Air,
                but a decompaction of

reflections fading over time..

All the memories
moments I’ve had
are all fading to black
exchanged for sadness
and slowly forgotten