What world have we not believed in
Upon the making of our love?
Two streams run between
The sides of your delicate head.
A tiny form is all you have,
And I’ll not break it
Further, when our worlds collapse.
As great enemies wander
To where they shall battle,
We’ll be ever-further apart,
From the other.
I see your face so aligned,
With thin streams that sometimes widen
Into roaring and merciless rivers,
Running into your open and tired mouth,
And break, for good
When you breathe.
I see shoulders there for kissing.
I see them, as well, for caressing.
I see what should be offered a bite,
I see what should be given, despite
How our Hell has wilted our light.
Fear is a plague to me,
And I’ll always be the horror in your eyes.
For I am not the man to make you believe,
In love’s short eternity.