The lovers do not kiss until forever, let’s not delight in such lying things.
They embed in their tarot card with no meeting of the lips,
No beacon in the in-between to suggest that any halcyon marriage will vow.
There is only a distance and a gaze that aligns with the flame of a heart
That pulsates and terminates any and all forms of contentment.
In this spell of a paper love, the lovers go round in the eye of a sun ray
That compels the veins to pull taut and pleading at each other’s names,
Like children crying on their knees over wicked things which bear no graves.
Twisted together in a bed of stone and ivy, their bones tower and crumble
All at once — as any kingdoms do in such times of soaring blindly.
Tears turn to opals, infused with the milk of lust, and they clatter in shame
Into the hollow belly of each heart grown weary to the nightcoming of meaning.
At last, they come to see the impossibility of holding the filament of desire;
Though they continue to deny it in every moment that yawns or breaks.
If only there was a chance to stop the reaching of eyes to eyes for solace;
The purpose bruises purple and amber as the days and nights burn by.
This is the tower of ruin, where flames swell from blood given in vain,
The very place that gathers the heartlines of lovers fated to go astray.
In such reckoning do they cry for each other, separated by sky and space—
Torn away by the cruelty of what it means to love until one smothers.
It is the curse that shadows them for daring to build homes in each other,
For daring to think that they could ever remain the same.