by mandaceehb

With tender fingertips you graze my cheek

Erasing the sunset he painted with pressure

You move the insurmountable layers of violet and blue and bloody reds

To the dark recesses of my mind where I cannot remember

Your presence will make him a ghost figure


I feel safe

In your embrace of beautiful words that never needed ink to justify

They will float in my head, a butterfly parade of ecstasy

With gentle assurances as sincere as the light in your eyes

I know now

His threadbare messages of honeyed ramblings were never words manufactured from his own mind

He has poisoned the palettes of word-artists so very in love, and what a waste of their creativity

The stars were always fragments of glass to him


I will love the pressed flowers you give me, in delicate preservation

Of a transparent afterlife in fragile co-existence

His bouquet of red roses is decaying in the trash