A Story Of Him And Her

Your touch a Sunday morning, pure and sweet,
With fingertips as slow as break of dawn;
The golden thread where earth and heaven meet
So surely lines and lies upon your palm.
The season of the sun caught in a day
Or lantern lit devouring shade of night,
Thy feeding fire I do not dare betray,
Nor venture cast my doubt into your light.
For when the evening wakes, the sun does sleep;
Thy beacon trembles, gasping like a flame:
In bitter darkness once again I weep,
My tongue caressing remnants of your name.
To light a match again would not be wise,
Yet thy black absence means my sure demise.

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