The Crying Light

As
the
caramel-coloured
clouds
bleed the moon of life,
and the jasmine scent of your skin
stagnates with the weight of the past,
I come to understand the reason for my claustrophobia:

Your beruffled tresses are lank,
your hands are cold
and your eyes are lifeless lagoons
that plummet eternity's depths.

You have left me.

--

Ben Pickard 2020