She wrote of bliss On a long line of my reprieve, While I sought to leave All the while, nestled Within her arms, in the storms Of her eyes. I cast symmetry Out of me. The fragments, the pieces Are better suited to my reflection And my resurrection Has more of an edge, than smoothness. Pieces, Brokenness, As depression hungers, Wilting my form like the fanned petals, Raising flames to curl against my tired eyes, In the failing of the next sunrise. She smeared the ruins of a kiss Over my beading forehead, Showered by the overhead storm Before one blissful sunset.