What stones have encrusted themselves
Into a skull made of the bone, white as the snow,
White as the emptiness of us both,
White as the frozen look of us both.
Love does not silence itself,
Unless it come into your arms
And attempt to heal itself.
For love is but an infant
That never was in your womb.
Love has only ever been the sick child,
Crying aloud in its feebleness.
What hollowness that does reside within,
Two eyes heavy with stones,
Is where death goes
To sleep, on its own.
My kisses run wild, across your naked form.
And, my scars are traced, as curves so identical
With that of your body.
You’ll love with one treasured face
I should have lacked.
The courage I did not see,
Is but a place not for the retreat,
But, still for the conceit.