My shaking hands, her bashful eyes,
we laid our rose to rest last night.
Cradled in Lethe's heavy quilt
I heard it's petals sing.
Lured by earnest elegy
the western Sun arose.
He kissed my weeping fingertips
and warmed her fallen breast.
In his breath we sighed relief,
unburdened. As before.
Like feathers in a dream we flew.
No shadows. Without care.
Remembering our golden dance,
leaves, burning, stood on edge
and leapt in splashing auburn waves,
our summer's dawn ballet.
I held her, soaring, in my arms,
and kissed her tear-streaked cheek.
Laughing, carefully, she hid
her eyes below my shoulder.
Her familiar touch brought nectar skies
to cloudless seas of sapphire.
And from the sun bloomed nascent hope,
unblemished, a new rose.
Like Icarus I craved her more.
She knowingly said no.
Like me, I drew her close and kissed.
Like us she did relent.
But for touching the sun we met
and lost reprieve,
for Lethe dried on my fingers, and
left her baptized lips. Cold
I broke our stare and met the dark,
Again. Our rose had sunk.
No mourning song to cut no sound.
But still, we felt the cries.
She whispered "Hi," so hopefully.
I, recalling, forced "goodbye."