Like two bleeding suns,
My palms were crushed
Under the weight of your heavy form
That dropped from the bleak monochrome.
I saw what would have shocked me,
Were I not already knowing it.
Your form is inescapable,
Like a palette to an artist,
He wields it like a shield,
While his eyes are the color that he perceives
With every carefully aligned stroke
Of a brush, the sword.
Your form, like the mark that conceals all defeat
That washes up to my toes.
Your form, with beauty and weakness, itself,
Has danced as though to enthrall me,
Above my exposed grave.
You would kiss me, to rob me, to reveal me, to heal me.
Love, like a temple, upon the rocks,
Upon the stones that shimmer beneath fallen hues
From a sun, from two suns,
My eyes, my palms, and both are crushed
Under the weight of your demise.