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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Written: November 20, 2025, ***************** We began as all combustions do— a spark in the petiole of dusk, Your voice is a mellifluous matchstick against the grate of my solitude. The air, thick with sky mist and serendipity, tasted of carotene and sapidity, and I, a rakish viceroy of yearning, proclaimed our sanctity sacrosanct. You wore your laughter as a radiant tiara, and I, with slipshod hubris, called it eternal. We built a hearth from threadbare promises, fed it with panegyrics and panacea, raked the embers with doggedness and called the smoke a symbiosis. Even the nimbus above us seemed to burn unabated. But fire is a jinxed harbinger— Its gospel is catharsis, It's an altar, a hecatomb of touch. Desire writhed into demand, and the sanctity we once revered became a palimpsest of blame. You began to prowl the periphery, a lynx in the cloudscape, while I spasmodically clung to the quixotic catchphrases we once whispered sacred sacraments, The luster dulled. The wisteria wilted. Our love, once amaranthine, became a dismal quagmire of somber glances and saccharine lies. Even our silences had a sartorial weight— tailored to wound. Watch you disappear, a nimbus ensnared within a beacon of light; without your idolum, soul drifts in stillness I endured it with profound dimness. Humiliation woven into each witness. Now, I sift through ash— seeking a trace of what we once were: a shard of sanctity, the verve of vehemence. But everything that hovers is the strange, A haunting feeling of our split, a deep, empty chasm carved out in the codex carved in my rib cage. And yet— in this ruin, this catharsis, I find the quintessential truth: that love, akin to fire, is not meant to last— only to metamorphose.
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