The Last Candle

 
 
[She wore I love yous like cheap lipstick]    
   
   
November's exile    
feels like a cosmic rendering  
of self-serving immunity.  
   
The obliteration of emotional depth    
is imminent in the shallows.    
   
The rain returned as promised.    
   
To unhinge from reality and its tasteless virtue,    
I excuse myself from the vulgar feast  
then lean from the shadows    
to blow out the last candle.  
   
I trace my fingers along  
the darkness of forgotten words  
between lovers, written a long time ago -  
I tumble inside that starless night,  
marooning myself within    
the semiotic musings and moon-spun trysts  
only to reverse the river for my pleasure of unfeigned lust.    
   
   
[And there is where she carved the omen in her own image]  
   
   
I know what lonely feels like.  
   
   
© 2015 blue angel  
Artwork by Andrew Atroshenko