Ember and Pulse
You're still here (barely).
Candescent ember amidst rubble--
warm-reaching to illuminate
shells of dismembered love poems
those you were meant to burn
back when deep red lines like veins
stretched over immaculate white reason
and (under my inadequate words) collapsed
But I'm still here (nearly).
The stubborn pulse that lingers in evergold hope
of sustaining just one fistful of faded fire
in this far-fallen heap of unspoken verse
And I fear, I know
a pulse is not a life
an ember is not a flame
And this rubble's not a home
But I know, I fear
every poem caught in my darkness
and every landscape in your light
sometimes run away to meet in the
never-had-places of dream-drenched-hours
where we maybe (always) one day were.