A Pale Collection of Emptiness

One day I wish to know, as the scars of devils do, when your eyes, married to the auburn fox, will remove their pantheon of petrified ghosts and lay with me once again. Lay with me again in the cloaked whisper of circumstance, decorated in the buoyant chill of mist and youthful catastrophe that lingered over our breath in the sparrow of nights, in the timid shadow of the air. A night carved in the handwriting of burning exhales drizzled in the forest of speckled darkness, as the tear of electric saints stained over our memories Lay with me again in the frail midnight behind the moon's pondering gaze and the congregation of cypress trees, humming the gospel of the night. Your tender lips clasped to my shallow immensities to collect every strained voice that collapsed between us. It wasn't a moment, but a mythology we immersed our tender gravity to bloom. Yet the creation of our myriad of thoughts were vagrant and ravishing. Only the steam of empty desire would be our witness. Lay with me again in our forlorn temple, pasted with the scars of a thought too true to be abandoned Wilting in our cotton enigma, one muses if the past was meant to be certain. You carried an empty look into me while playing with my long, childish, hair (I think I lost you the day I cut it all off) because your past was your keeper and you never let me know if the present could be your mad companion. Did that moment wear a face? Did our time have a mouth and a taste? Lay with me again in our cavern of nomadic prophecies. As the endless novella of encounters embellished the ways we relinquished our every shattered fury into our carnal universe. I knew for a moment that I found you. And in the silk garments that cocooned our heated slumber We looked into each other with a fragile innocence. A haunted glance that forever bookmarked within the simple opus we simmered through our shallow, insipid nights to unveil. A night most men give lifetimes to discover A night, in its echo, most men pray to forget. Lay with me again, for the last time, in the bruised veranda of our quiet perfidy. A hollow, desolate communion invigorated by the silent thrusts of denial, apathy became our passions, our dullard complexion of one another. It was the obsequy of our elation. We awoke with a fever for absence. A rapid depletion of time. With the open door of the empty morning our past escaped us. We became what we always were. A simple piece of light.