Death, The Veil, An Arrow Wound

On losing a failed romance with one of my dearest friends, the pain associated with such, and the hope for healing between us and in our own hearts separately.

Does it sadden you,

to see the time I was yours,

in a still-frame?

As if, in this instance,

it would last for all time,

forever suspended,

in lifelike colours,

emblazened in the mind,

as a familiar scent,

forgotten to childhood,

or the sound of,

a loved one's voice,

who has passed on.

I never entered to end it,

I never aimed to,

claim your heart,

just to break it,

but there was no sun,

on that horizon we sailed to,

and my mind is too weak,

for a shadowy fate,

I had to surface,

and oh how my soul,

tore as the veil,

in the holy of holies,

as we parted,

made room in our hearts,

to love again,

not only for others,

but betwixt ourselves,

as we had all of those years,

friends from a world apart.

Even good intention,

hope & great admiration,

cannot say,

that the world,

will not devour some love,

an imperfect spectrum:

the human condition,

care all you want,

build these pillars,

strong and tall,

oh still, it may lay in ruin,

a moment from now,

a breath away,

so,

until we have faces,

until we ascend,

and meet then,

complete and perfected,

I'm not sure,

if we'll have the answer,

to our dream --

the death of a vision,

a divergent path,

buried so deep in the woods,

that no man could say,

he knows of its origin,

or detect the split.

To speak of loss,

to marry it to your marrow,

to let it seep into your flesh,

taking it in as a drug,

coursing impetuously through,

every vein in your body,

ventricles teeming,

with a sickened pulse:

makes us the fire,

the hangman for hire,

the yawning maw,

of a pale, lachrymal beast.

It is an arrow wound,

imparting these words,

making light of,

every emotion I conjured,

during the fall,

but I must tell you,

I treasure the ashes,

of the time we shared,

the beauty of an era,

now only in photographs,

and boxed-up letters,

that I'll never discard,

my friend,

my twice-lover,

I know that amends,

are a war on the senses,

a disquieting trial --

as trudging,

through mire,

but listen to me,

look at me:

if these reminiscences,

are ghoulish,

inspire a dire resolution,

then forsake me until,

you no longer need,

to nurse those wounds,

I'll wait forever,

to regain the glory we held,

before we descended,

into madness,

what we shared,

for years & years,

before the castle or canyon,

became prelude to,

a ship set to sink,

unforeseeably,

as the thousands of moths,

I laid to rest in the desert,

where, even then,

the strange call of my own past,

was pushing me,

into the ground.

Where I saw you as a star,

bright and warm,

ethereal,

but too far to feel,

and too brilliant to look at forever.