I write a poem
and burn it.
what escapes of it
is my soul.

These ethereal black feathers
falling off the light,
are of nothing
but the reiterated deaths,
when I write about you.

The insatiable chaos
of your memories,
fading rainbows
of metaphors.

Replenish me, my love
before I cease to exist.

The many patterns of silence
In nights and blank poems
Yearning to escape

The melody was repeated
each shadowy dawn.
And my waking was
a solitary note,
lingering until its final fade.

We live between
the spaces of
promises,

in broken
tea cups
and
shattered
mornings.

then
new vows
soak up
spilled words

until we
fall again.

Those times
I heard the echo
Long before the sound.