À contrecœur

The fantasy outran the truth once again;
You sighed and lingered, something moral
weighing on your mind, I'm sure.
Walls to hold up a roof under which,
If you look with untainted sight,
Illusions give way to wilted dreams,
And stars die before their time.

The furthest stretch was that of desire,
Or love, if you wish to play semantics still,
One which would reach to some celestial
body and back, and perhaps it did;
That holds more explanation than
any book or conversation I've held discourse with
in recent memory's allowance.

Were you to open up your chagrined self,
would you recognize the pieces there
within? Is there damage, or was the design
flawed from its inception? The glow of
time rescinds quickly in your flighty presence,
Ire descends so quietly, vacuous in pretense.

Our blood has mixed, and I carry with me
one of those enigmatic fragments,
An unwelcome understanding of the world
outside of vogue and costumed apprehension,
Histrionics blanketed by the gravity of your
vagary smile, the siren song personified,
Undoubted beauty within and without.

The fantasy outran the truth once again;
I thought I could leave, but sanctuaries take
shape from want as much as require concedes.
Waves beget troubled sleep, and a fragment
can pull with tenacity unbound, I've found,
When truth is such a bitter seed.