a few words spoken beneath the moon, love may be, but I write your name in the celestial dust that lingers in the air, above the veilchenblau roses, callow and pale
beneath the stars that drift; she sighed and said "Every tale of a love can only be a tale of ghosts that linger in these spaces we can never hold,"—as the wind gave echo
. . .the sorrows of the heart yearn to be erased, for one final atonement finite and forgetting and whole—but time in its preserving will not permit forgetting; destroying only when we can no longer beg or argue with time to preserve the brief beni...
. . . This is not the same river at my fingertips. There are no paths, no sunken roads familiar in the forest, by which we can retrace our steps, by which we can escape by which we can reclaim and return, or hear the child’s song running in the tim...
I wish to go down under the waters— the cool, crystalline waters that I knew, where all that is, here, existing, is is only to be lost within the susurrations and the rumours of water and the evening star we wait for...
. . .though the names of lovers are forgotten in time, their names written across the sky as ogham threads are traced between the stars
we lived depravity and called it truth, silencing our dreaming, and our love, discarding things holy.
To forget would mean the things we never knew had never waited to be known, never waited to be forgotten, had never been; waiting beneath the long dead stars in time. . .
. . .our whispered words, faintly in the darkness, dissolving within the trees—then, fleeting words of consolation would not suffice if feigned, and flippant words confessed reluctance—our words were meaningless uttered on the wind. . .
. . .in your light, had I learned to love, here in your beauty, could I speak knowing of this space close within as the breath held inside a garden rose, there— there is no time.
