We communicate through broken mirrors and foggy lenses.
Our pulses are questionable though our thoughts are sincere
enough to hide in each other’s formidable comforts.
I see you as if the sky were a stage
and me, like a peasant stealing glances
this is our reality; this is our sweet tragic vice.
Entangled in the mists of a waterfall fallen off course,
and high above a dormant garden
I lay to rest our secret stash
of broken love letters and sensual ashes.
I will smoke what is left of our faltered dreams
for the eternity in which you beckoned.
You will taste the debris each time we kiss
and choke on realizations too soon to conceal.
I will forgive you for your fostered lungs
and mourn the inevitability of our conversations
that have been reduced to the seconds between flames
where we take turns escaping this lifetime
anxious to fail in the next.
Now I look at the skies, and you are nowhere to be found…
only when I close my eyes and breathe can I touch you.