Your plumage exalts me,
a frenzy of color and taboo.
I writhe in the wake of your designations,
in the subtle culpability of your smile
as it slips breathlessly beneath the horizon.
I have loved you all the days of my life
though we are strangers, even now.
I can taste your desire, your sutures
like pennies and hemlock.
Had I known the destructive force
that you would become I would have
given you more, died as is my want
with blood-chilling fortitude,
like a fire plucked from an intermittent spark.
The day exploits my sorrows,
the day expects things that I no longer provide.
The day has become my night
and my night is infinite though seldom silent.
My exhales perforate each moment
and what a terrible weight, each breath
drawn not of volition but from some
inexplicable need to survive.
I like to pretend that you are dead,
that my mourning is justified,
that my absences are meaningful.
I do not want you back,
only your memory can occupy
the rifts and endeavors of my brandished heart.