Beautiful shadows
fall at angles
that remind me
of you, leaning in close
under a pale, orange moon-cast glow,
on the boughs of the trees,
your whispers
were not so different
to the sound of their
leaves, growing spartan,
in the warm Autumn breeze,
fluttering like kisses
and enchanting heartbeats, against
ribs,
seeming broken,
as twigs, underfoot,
snapping, with pressure, and
weight; the same way something shattered
across your face
every time I called
down
grace and prayed your name in
the still
of night;
filled your senses: your scent
and sight, enraptured,
until your iris
turned black,
deeper and softer
than the velvet back of a
silent
moth to a flame's leaping light,
burning with a gentle crackle, bright, in
crisp
and empty air;
late - a bonfire, a wood burner,
a taxi queue...
the hot smoke of your breath
in my hair.
