.

I’ve grieved…
Not so much over what was lost.
More so the way
I tried to bury these memories.

Candles…
that for a time once,
stoked hale,
unflickering flames.

All tied to strings
that lead straight to my heart
and all partially buried…
In many a shallow grave.

•••

Perhaps because a deeper tomb
would mean a lesser purchase
and looser grip on these strings.

I never could let go…

.

.

just as his cheeks
and tongue
tasted salt,

the porcelain
tasted warm crimson

.

.

Nights don’t change…

Perhaps just the stories
they weave in infinites
from the fires of stars
and embers of hearts…

Or perhaps it’s the way
they were captured
and deciphered;
Reworded and retuned
to the song and dalliance
of the hand-wielded ink.

If the feeling is pure,

unbiased and untainted,

why then does the heart


                            bleed black


.