In my dreams I can still love you.
I can forget the things we did to each other.

And fate hasn’t yet begun to conspire
the machinations which would drive us apart.


I'll know I have loved you
when it’s not merely
the sound of your voice
or the brush of your hand
that quickens my soul so.

But the shape of the letters
that form your sweet name –
meaningless in any other form.

I’ve studied their curves.
Taken comfort in their lines.
Written them in permanent ink
on the very folds of my being.


These ribs have been charred black with soot from the combustion of this burning heart – a fire fed by the very act of drawing breath. I am consumed by this world, and in tandem, tumultuous form I am become of it.