The Story

“You ought to have a breathing truth,” I once said,
You were torn asunder to an answer so soundless
to lock lips with the lipless–
because you were ever so sworn,
“But like a running wind,” I reckoned,
You thawed but left no trace
but only the dregs and pins
of the fearsome seams
of the old darkened lights
we once called hearts and minds,

and I surely remembered,
you long ago walked defiantly
like a huntsman, for I was the bullet
when I inched past your breath;
to commune and marvel;
only to trade them with the sunset
you loved most–and ebb into one,

So I ask for your regret;
Will the glare above the sky be the only but
a thousand more daybreaks and sunsets,

as you don’t trust you could take me anywhere, you said,
You could only sing such silent dainty madness
and I would only lay awake until I forget what has been
a cascade unwound so that we may grow up thick,
though I am insofar to see
the way beyond the folderol–
maybe you told me a fairy tale, after all