Fallen

Our favorite pastime was the miracle we saw in each other at night,

when our daytime beliefs hid and our muddy souls appeared.

By drips we breathed,

carpenters of our own madness.

On a lightning wire to nowhere.

We wouldn’t last the decade.

The opposition had amassed troops,

and printed flyers about our sins.

Headlines of our demise were penned.

No religion can touch these two, they said.