Being with you is like coming home
to find that the fire has singed the curtains and turned the carpet to ash.
What was warm is cold.
What was soft is hard.
What was tender is brittle.
It smells of death but it’s still ours
and I should like to curl up in the black and hold the photographs of us close to my chest.
I’d like us to lie side by side in the skeleton of our love and make angels in the dust,
feeling the roof crumble above us and the rain fall heavy on our faces.
This is the final crescendo; walls creaking and crashing,
Our song blasting in our ears.
Violence without malice.
Hollow acceptance seeping into our skin as our clasped hands become dust.
A soft breeze blows our imprints towards the horizon.
A sigh of relief.