Pale Vapor

It’s all new now,

The pale vapor lingers in the bedroom,

While hope and grief play together on a swing set right outside, taking turns to see which silhouette can sway higher than the other.

We re-iterate the passing of time with the acknowledgement of the seasons.

Winter’s death proves to bloom Spring’s full fertility.

The stagnant heat of the Summer wanes into the crisp passage of Autumn.

Can these calendars take deep solemn breaths, before withering away into the air?

She begged on bloodied knees, rapidly witnessing age ravage a young face, her body now plump with illness and chosen abuse from years passed.

The velveteen morning is no longer met with fresh excitement, but with the dreaded dragging of feet that have walked so many miles.

Shadows are creeping out from the corners of her eyes, a warning that things are eerily silent.

Each new bouquet meant to replace the last one dies faster and faster, with fewer and fewer gazes set to enjoy them.

What veil will be worn over bleak tongues tonight, darling?

Sudden shades of violet cover the bed like plums that have come to ripen in sun beam heat, and we’ll continue to ignore this because what other choice do we have?

We cannot save the other from such sorrows.

We can make love beside them, paranoid from the inevitable.

Beneath the weight of salt, I whisper down to the grains if they truly can purify anything, and how to get in line.

They slip between my fingers and onto my thighs before they can respond with heavy sigh.

Each new dusk brings forth shaking fingertips stained with wine, the undeniable knowing that I am being observed.

How much does invisibility cost?

A blink, the pinprick of a thorn, the grazing of shoulders pressed together in the back of a car.