Spoils of Day 60

60.5

It was never about flesh,

broken bodies aching

in the night, half shared.

It was never about trace,

timid fingers searching

in reciprocal twilight.

Distant eyes, cloying grins;

it was never about that.

Hollow promises,

shattered souls;

quieted to dust.

60.4

That timid soul in cold moonlight, 

who a shelter weaves with words 

of dark and ethereal dreams,

never confessed or forgotten; 

that one, her noir holds dear.

60.3

She's a wild tulip, 

noir velvet petals 

unfurling suddenly, 

forever shattering 

his brutalist front.

 

60.2

From afar, she sees your words

weaving beautiful hellos again,

alluring as ever.

Yet she can't reply 

but with words of mourning

now, fading ink, blemishes

on the page, as ephemeral

as your friendship was.

Fire has made her too timid,

dear friend, or too wise,

for second chances.

60.1

Pain, the raw prelude 

to insight, passes 

into memory; 

truth remains.