Pittance from the sleeve

Bottles and midnight tilt in candled opera light across my cold and colorless room..all sins here unfold and have forgotten, as with the days too far for such a mind and heart at ease. 

Oh, please forgive,  for there was a time I will confess that mattered, the way that spring jabs at winter as if a peach slow to rot from its ovary, but do consider me slow. There WAS a time rich with topaz when the sea became the coils of notion, a time that sprawled and blinded me to the center of my fingertips, rushing to be somewhere in this vicinity of sighs, but how broken you must have  died somewhere, a glance inside the mirror, how deep the well or so the years may say again. 

Again forgive, for no twilight lives in morning when angels fill the gin in your crag and coffee; a dawn-bled ruby red life has sailed. Yet times when you'd speak I could only hear the memory of water. A Logos that for some means God, others the spirit at your petal-ized feet. Now, there is only a trace and the wanting silence, prayers from the sleeve for a New Year when the streets rused may find some day apostle(d).  I will only have an absent sense of stage. 

Our absence, my love was the only waste and sin to all these years, the only night I may regret . But should you hear that all has perished do not upset for the end, for you have already died in a fog professed, which lingers beside us like a musty old rag.  

Author's Note