Sonnet 8

Ethereal’s the thing my mind’s eye traces,

Enigma of a ghost of memory

That dwells within a litany of places,

Wherein I’ll never go, except for thee.

*

The labyrinth unravels at your word,

The puzzle solves itself, though you are wordless.

To remain here’s a thing I can’t afford,

I must convince myself your ghost is worthless.

*

From my own ears, I cannot pry your whisper,

Which rings so yearning in my doleful head,

Velvet soft, your touch on my skin blisters,

Your lips to graze my cheeks render me dead.

*

My darling, please, for this baleful cascade,

I beg of you to let our nothings fade.

*

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