My life is made of silks,
It packs down to nothing.
Dead skin masquerading as youth,
Cold world seen through dead eyes.
Each breath I pray will be the last,
Yet time’s irony thrusts me forward.
I sit a while,
Waiting for the love that never comes.
Hope becomes a tomb,
Heartbreak the catafalque,
Emptiness – the coffin.

Staring again at a sepia stare,
Was she ever here?
Was I ever there?
The image may fade
But the memory stays sharp,
I recount every breath
Every laugh
Every touch.
Where there was warmth,
A think layer of ice forms
With my heart cold beneath it.