How would I like To soak myself in the strands of your rain? Bleak and brown locks that hang like hands Loosened off the edges of broken clocks. Your grave, a swindler's den That kisses me, in breezes to the night, The gusts to my palms, The seeds of fairest dandelions Lost on their voyage Like your remembered scent Carried through to the end of Spring. I bleed To soak pages Without something to consider Further From you, When time stops on its pale design In the space where stars only look to find. You broke the key, Painted senseless moments Without truth, Without slightest comprehension. I catch your eyes wide open Without dimension, For you have stayed only to wield fire To burn my hardened skin. I am where blood boils Where the life toils, Where the dreams die, As the wishes subside.