I.
The gilded moon hangs
a silver portrait o'er head
on a night when I have
deviated from my vacant bed.
I walk along the haunted shore,
where brine rushes to kiss my aching feet
that leave to pass only memories of presence
like your tender sighs under summer's heat.

Your silhouette hides under my sheets
rustling and stirring with lusty fever,
but that memory is a translucent lullaby
as fragile as the web of the orb weaver.
I walk alone admist phantoms and
haunted juniper that purrs your name,
and inky pools wet with your reflection.
You're gone, I'm alone, and it's all the same.

II.
We made our bed as nymphs
do beneath the velvet stars,
where atop dew kissed moss
we married our hearts and virginal scars.
You kissed my lips with a lover's promise,
"never to part lest the Heavens descend to Hell."
For years to come Larks will sing of a love lost
of Romeo and Juliet and other lovers star crossed
but at what cost?

But at what cost...