I Have For You One Last Melancholy

Take me back to the very beginning.
Somewhere around autumn before our tree was dead.

You and I carved our names into a tree with wilting flowers.
We bonded on a love that was made to end.

So I gave you a bracelet of moodstones, the same as mine,
and a diamond bracelet similar as mine.

I told you:
"There will most likely become a day when we won't sit together anymore."
That if only there was no distractions in the world, we would love each other and never stop.

You still have the music box playing a Chopin nocturne in the light.

We were meant to die. We didn't joke under an evergreen.

It was crabapple. It was barely living.
So were we.
When the blush on your cheeks turned to blushing anger
and the visualization in my closed eyes had no light in their tunnel.

It is true. I will miss you.
You were the truest chest to run into.

But gone with the season.

I knew we would be apart forever.

No matter the solidarity across each other's wall of solitude.

No Trojan horse could sneak a love into weathered hearts.

I didn't say goodbye, my dear.
I just left for gone.
But the winter in our tree
of naked pricks and retreated birds to the South
of our South,
more south than "Gone With the Wind".
So south, they may not come back
to our tree,
burrow life into this tree
again.

And for that you deserve a forward goodbye.
And know this goodbye is mid-forever.

No hope. No Eden. No hidden world.
I loose the demon.

He blows ice over all the oasis or prison or thing of coming together with our different strokes of paint,
and every comfort of kiss is pounded with snow.

And I know this line, "It's cold outside, my friend."
To our separate paths, our separate homes,
our separate plights with sin.