I’ve known the dawn and dusk

And dawn to dusk I rest so unassured,

But trust I can afford to love or lust

Some love of lustful cures

For miseries I’ve caught

Insistent sorrows I could not resist

With remedies I’d borrowed

From a life far less monotonous

Than that in which I hesitate to seek out reconciliation of the love I have misplaced; of the things from which my gaze so carelessly was set adrift when once my eyes had caught a glimpse and well, farewell it sought to wish

But death it did,

And bested me,

Invested in a reverie

A faded glow of seven things

1) Her hair

2) Her eyes

3) Her smile

4) Her kiss

5) Her laugh

6) Her craft

7) Her difference

Her craft, her laugh, her kiss, her smile, her eyes, her hair, and my denial

And by the while,

The darkness spread

Up through my sleeve,

Into my head

Where bitterness does shelter dread

And loneliness has made its stead

In absence of the hope: that lead which weighs upon the happiness that turned up dead some years ago and rose again

As bitterness which shelters dread

While loneliness had made its stead

In absence of the hope that she might wave her wrist in beckoning and call me back to love her.

Though, eventually, she let me close again,

Again, she let me go…

And left my heart to wonder,

“So just how will all the monsters know when I would like to love again? Will they just leave politely as if time had come to find them? Will you come back if I need you? Will you come back to remind them? Will you come back to — ”

— remind me of your nose, it’s wrinkled pose upon the pout you would disclose to me, and only me, I hoped, but truthfully, would never know. My tunnel-vision tunnels so that I dismiss the slightest showing of signs I might find foreboding. Otherwise, I’d die from knowing that one day you might stop glowing as you glow —

— so very bright — and leave behind a fading light, who’s dismal dimness scarcely fights away the reaching grasp of night, yet still leaves me enough to write…

But as my woes arose through rows of dialectic broken prose, I noticed there was nothing left to say about a girl.