Weeping While Melting

This is the way romance engulfs:
with air that tastes like burning
and eyes that penetrate like
long-buried memories of forgotten,
backseat lovers.

This is why we have moral majorities.

I never said, “I can’t do this.”

Still, you glared at me for an eternity
and when you blinked,
I shifted shapes:
a man,
a child,
a silent forest,
a flower with no petals.

I blinked away
from in front of you
into your mind
where you could be
somewhat left alone with your thoughts.

“I love you,”
you whispered to yourself.
“I always will.”

You once told me what would happen when the end arrived.
You told me the gulls would fly backwards
and the moon would split into separate, but equal, parts.

Still, we danced.
We laughed.
We approched every apocalypse
as trained eschatologists.

Now, in the deep recesses
of your fractured memories,
I still sit surprised
by how warmly you welcomed
those frightening flames.

Weeping While Melting

Sock it to me

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