In the highest barricades
of Millennia
and wilted fields of Lavender,
I might’ve loved you.
I might’ve taken your hand
and let you lead me
through ghoulish night.
I might’ve held you
with the fervor
of endless,
winkless
Dreams,
in holy concaves
of majesty
and infatuation,
saturated
by opal irises
and kisses of
California summer.
I would’ve made you mine,
had I known then
what the Sirens now sing to me,
unrelentingly:
the secrets of Infinity
laid bare,
like iridescent
oil spills
in an empty lot
sodden
with weeds between cracks.
In another life,
I’ll call you back to me.
I’ll draw you back again
with a wrathful, raging love:
wild enough to wake gods,
fierce enough to tame odious tide,
deep enough
to drown aeonic suffering.
And not even Adam
or Eve
themselves
might undo the knots
of Fate
I’ll lace
between You
and I, then.
And I’ll grant you passage
to a second world
with a key that unlocks such
sacred Regret.
And I’ll point out all
the stars named after us,
as they swirl in
clouds of Violet,
storms of Indigo,
seas of twinkling,
ruptured
Gold.
And I’ll set a dagger
on your heart,
and you to mine,
and we’ll die together,
erupting
into
dazzling
bursts
of destined
dust,
travelling far enough
to be drawn together
once
again.
This is a story of regret.
