And yet,
when the fog stays,
love’s breath is here to
keep Hell’s warmth on fingers,
on a form that shivers
with the cold of amnesia,
induced enough to reduce
a man to his knees.
Begging with a plea,
answers returning from sea
to keep me alive with the bleed.
From wrists known to be kissed,
from a heart that will never start
without the heat of a form
drawn close as a curtain.
With each dream
fading as a star
into a beautiful nebula.
Supernova to the fertile,
birth for newest galaxies
for newer voids.
Pain, of love, is as
the black hole drunk on light,
swallowing while never dying
to the poison nestled
on pressing lips
against cheeks or hands,
praying in stagnant humiliation,
being a single particle,
one cell imprisoned
in a stream of unconscious
stardom.
Always a light in another’s eyes
until tears are as many
as countless sand.
Modern Romanticism 
How beautiful, how woeful! Where do you do most of your writing?
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Where? At home. Or if you meant where most of it is kept, it would be on this blog. 🙂
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I meant whether a quiet corner, an ancient study, or a kitchen table…
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Oh. Well, sometimes I’m kept cooped up in my office. Or whenever I feel like it, I’m in my favorite cafe, sipping on some coffee and munching on a sandwich while typing out all these words. 😀
Usually either of those places. Lol.
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An office, you say? Such is the fate of a Modern Romantic, too, alas!
Thanks for answering.
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