It is not enough to tell a love story.
You must make it,
your own, salvation.
Others clutch to what can only be
yours.

I miss you, but I
love you, more.
Like the alarm that’s already been snoozed
into oblivion. Obvious in its
intentions to blare into my dreams to
disrupt what you have created in
critical completion.

It feels like fall when
all it’s been is summer,
and soon winter will chill
to the marrow,
claiming you for its own.
Fall, a forgotten
memory in demise.

Blues hung meticulously from the wire hanger
cornered in the room
with blood stains on the floor.
The bed stripped
after a dress, black, pooled like dark water
upon cheap upholstery.
Personas stripped instantly and urgently.

Completion, only obtained for a moment,
costly in its realization that
before we were not complete, and after
we wont be again,
until Time has been
vanquished in its merciless battle
against our Completion.