In which love comes from things do not chose to be yet what make of, even if be long passed on from living.
I.
A wheel of constellations cycles thru the ink canvas within the firmament, years become centuries, as another is an epoch and several an age
My name is a whisper lost in turning hands, a white noise which fills your being- familiar and distinct with a fleeting title, but never lost from the tides of time
You are no mortal, and I some former imitation with my now decayed vessel a limitation and a due condition of the once alive
At Belletyn nacht, you've stepped foot on my unmarked and untended grave, dandelion seeds on your fingertips as wet the ground with life's breathe
The winds rife with biting humidity as you unearth generations undisturbed earth and heath, revealing a blooming rot encased in wood under your feet
Naught a single crow or a slinking cat, was to stir in your ceremony, as all mortals likewise are kept in Morpheus' realm with the darkness hung heavy in the sky
His far somber brother is the confidant find tonight within me, in your grasp is a knife would willingly dip in my stomach for another lover, alas you have me alone
Tonight we step into a compromise, or this so I think, for no more decent soul would gather my affection since be long gone and passed on yet you untouched
Terribly, thoroughly, and almost traitorously is my yearning as I tremble into my newfound reliving- there are not enough words to tell you the delight in breathing
How the stars had woven themselves on your pale brow, your face a marble artifice far lovelier than a Bernini, and a fraction of the moon is in your eyes
Your lightest regard is my perdition, in the hour of the wolf, might there be a concession with ancient agreement as you spurn me away from the high halls
II.
With the brush of your lips, the old willow overhead while the sky lays starless and those long passed a witness, in this cycle we would be a writ ballad
A ritual begun in the grave rested within, might be a marquis, or lesser pauper in all but faded fineries and you are something vaguely unholy as be disarming
For a moment's pause, all is honey sweet and well fitting as the golden haze in my eyes, might've lived and died by a sway of your limbs to mine
I have never been for religion, but for you, allow me the novelty to be a devotee by your feet and on my knees, anywhere so you please
You've allowed me a visage to the moon reflecting the sun with the flex of your hips, luminous and sharp angled, a sudden warmth as lay in my coffin
My darkened sun, would call you as your numbing hands traced own ribs and spine, wilted flowers of a wreath or bouquet cushioning me
For the casted offspring of Helios, far too likewise their grandfather Hyperion, you are in this time- Orpheus and I, if be allowed, your Eurydice
There is an ethereal glow to your voice as vocalize me your paean, be inhuman but for a moment, as be gradually turned askew and a flushed moue painting itself at your cheeks and downwards
All thoughts are stolen between the quaver exalted mid rhythm, in bated breathe and blooming imprints, you've rived a hollowed crevice in my chest
III.
Parting flesh, bone, and to the lightest thread, there is nothing within where a heart might be nestled- but your rifling hands are enough to fill in the void
There is a bleak blankness which calls when you die, your presence banishes it, when return- be discarding humanity once remembered as a dream
For I have this abrupt hunger nip at my heels, for you to rest within me, to drink what's left flowing anew as to eat all I am remaining of
Would be no more better offering for a deity of long ago, you only mutter your answer in tongues far gone to decipher, all yearn for is a confirmation in it
With a fervent twist, you renewed the ceremony, almost wished to sob in the insistence, oh but to crave the torment and release as the tides done
Once smoother cadence sung, now bittersweet as thistle wine, every tremble in between roots something deeper to me, a seed of unnaturalness
A seething hurt wrapped in a pretense of pleasure, there are no tears that escape me but no less did the thorns hurt, yet some wants are worthwhile nature
This is the sacrament of a divinity than the prior gentility graced for a once mortal, to be taken as well savored, then consumed and depleted
Might my request be fulfilled, you are an eclipse which blinds in anyone's search of your allure and reprieve, by a hitch of breath and awe, I am yours
IV.
Spend an age in the potter's field, you'd know of boundaries, for don't leave once change hands with Thanatos, yet you came and natural order bends
To be anything but yours before, not of creation or death, its something cannot in comport in a single word- not after had woven what essence to mine
You, who grasped me by my crumbling chemise and decided be suiting than anything else, dearest hierophant, my liberator and garroter, laurel crowned
With you, I knew not where be or the hedges lay, its almost imperceptible and fine as your moonlight woven hair spilling over your shoulders in a halo
Your ghosting touch burns as cremation, relinquishing me a piece of your reflected sun as crept further, under my skin and jutting curves from the nape, spine, and ankle
Its a greater disregard to death between the flash of your teeth, tongue, and hot breath, as scour thru my vessel in fervent renewal, tearing each once tether
All while splintering the creaking pinebox, wilted flora where had lain now shining as pale ivories, your voice is a high song harmonizing with mine
A nebulous revolution between spaces taut and derelict, shining between grip of wrists, tug of the scalp, idle moments of almost respite until turn anew
Might our opus last into the hours towards the turning of the day, moments entangled in lucidity and ambiguity, you lull to me in verses never knew name or language of
It bewitches me when you gaze into me, the only verbiage understand besides the tune of your canted melody, I do not know what to name this one
Something more than unearthly sheen which burnished your skin, the biting crescents left by hands, all but askew vestiges of humanity we've but discarded
V.
Come the first kindling to the sun, you are fluid and finer til be tender as the moon within its last vestiges of luster, I mistake it almost for a singular act of vice
In languid less frantic movement, we see thru one another as transparent glass, might it be the far cherished detail above all I'll commit to my reliving
For there's no greater power than allowing someone your far fragile pieces and trusting they would not shatter it, I'll not fear to invoke this gift with you
We lay together at the doorway between living and unliving, I'm all aware you've tucked yourself by the column of my neck, lithe arms cradling me from falling
Something settles within my ribcage as your scent of honeysuckle embraces me, a faded memory of an abode lighted in gold, a lifetime away yet ever mine
Might fall asleep in the delicate press of your starshine which a small shard share now, though I have little fondness for reminded, I'm all but lulled
Dawn casts you in a fairer light, not as a morningstar yet a streaking comet, at fortnight ever heated aflame yet come daybreak be a lukewarm stream
When the brighter spheres reigns and smothers all, you gather me to your arms, all soothing enough to comfortably bask within the moment's afterglow
Your skin on mine an assuring simmer grounding me from being untethered, while treaded further from Elysium's faded fields filled with white lilies and graying grass
