Image Tragic

It was ambiguous. This vault called love.

We perished tugging winds,

tripping hurdles, fuse to fuse.

I loved her, scared of science, peering a

mystic saint.

She cried my arms, soul to rasp, fallin’

come midnight.

We fault,

unable to speak, wilder than sightless

nibs.

It was ever a stream, seemingly pointless,

shared with many, apparently

inauthentic.

Yes, we loved: softly ensoul’d, resting

‘till mid-noon.

Our touchstone was terror, posing before a

mirror, screaming, “I hate you.”

What have we given—least of our all,

pacing an inward temple!

Nibble such nectar, as sweet as farewell

love, upon silken sheets.

I loved her, dearly detached; and she

loved me, similar to an object.