there are rooms
in this house filled with
nothing but the black weight
of your past
there are windows pushed
to the point of breaking
and being in love is
being on the wrong side of
a locked door and i
find myself too often forgetting
where i’ve left the sun
i find myself
numbered among the dead
and dying species while
further down some long unused hallway
you cry for the person i’ve
made you become
and we will find each other in
the last fragile seconds
before the sky splits open
and we will stop
our hands will
explore living flesh beneath the
first low mutters of thunder and
our tongues will follow
that we believe this much in
the force of desire
should never be forgotten
