how bare
these fleeting seasons
wherein our passion lies
as dungeons black
was there the martyr fell
confessing
to the almost
didn’t make the news
a love without the need
or strength to tell

between the will
for one more day –
an hour
more or less returns
taken from the ending to repent
sins denied their pardon
cling to me at night
– longing warms
despite my best intent

wishes
I’ve decided
are rarely worth the rub
as moments seed the heart
with lets pretend
a boy I knew
my best to love –
flames anew sometimes
when breathed aloud
a silent might have been

. . .