Our love, the desolate wasteland—
The apocalyptic ruin stands
Still,
Lonely and foreboding; Sailing ships,
Needing a breath of the wind,
Once powered by our jovial vows,
Would find their sails
With ironed creases still visible.
I'd
Erect an island all my own
Secluded from your newly sharpened
Tongue, pouring slander like rain.
You'd
love
Nothing more than your own face,
Staring back at you from its high noon reflection.
Our love would be dismal.
you
Couldn't hold a candle to it—
For fear the flame would suffer
An icy extinction, such as each
Light— each shred of hope—
In our world would eventually
be extinguished
forever.