An Inability to Write Love-Songs

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has led to this yearning– I want to write
songs of you, the way Trent Reznor sings

of his ephemeral Her, his God, every roar,
every whisper, every husky syllable outlining

this emptiness within our darkly dreaming
cardiac cages. I want to write songs for you,
twisted and double-edged, shaping all
my depthless, wordless need; a melody
I would bury deep, let oceans crash over
it so when it rained you could be soaked
in this music the rain would whisper
in your ear. Let this rain always be for

you, piano notes reverberating on your skin
like a pulse, still in search of something
numinous. I want my words to melt
on your tongue. Breathe them out
into the wind, circumnavigate the world,
be suspended in the ether of midnight,

fireflies caught aglow in amber; hold
my amber-spun dreams in your hands,

let the sun warm them, seep the sun-wine
of their slow fire to resonate in

your emptiness, the way piano keys echo
within the hushed gloom of a thousand

watching eyes, I wish you could be–
eternal, eternal, eternal.

Because:
Death makes liars of us all.