I feel you in the pouring rain
violent or soft as a summer breeze.
A bird in flight you disappear into
the pixels from which you came.
Bruises of the soul are slow to heal
but I have become indifferent to pain
as cold as that seems.
Decaying gardenias fill my rooms with mortality,
decomposing petals saturated in dark secrets
kept alive by the ferocity of desire.
They rhapsodize my dreams with the zephyr
of your sigh upon my skin.
We are a wasteland, all poetic breath died with us.
Now I long for the clean scent of fall,
the smell of earth infused in deep roots.
Swaying wind chimes clinging to the arm of a live oak,
synchronized resonance of soothing sounds
for the twilight hours.