Him

If diction had pictures,
yours would be the face of caution.

Your name is me teetering on a cliff's edge.

When I accidentally draw to the surface how unmatched
you are
in an epoch that is the make-up;
the meaning of star-crossed,
I'm wholly incapacitated.

It will always be our story;
yours weaving into mine, defining,
then re-defining a dreamscape of fallen lovers.

I wish I knew when or why it will come to pass
that we crash, for we will crash,
(creating a cataclysm of ruin like crater impact),
but it has never been by our design to know
more than what bleating anguish -- longing --
we feel at each fleeting, fading contact.

We are some cruel medley of gut-wrenching strength
and stalwart weakness to the other's unfurled heart.

Like you for me,
I am endlessly at the whim of one leaping breath
to becoming yours;
always only, always yours.

There has never been a sadder summer love
for it may never come to pass.