The warmth has gone blue,
words twisting red in the wake;
night comes with black syrup
and I blur as bold as the smudge
of strange charcoal - only
you and me are silent.
An artist: she painted a face in makeup -
the mascara ran like a sad waterfall.
I suppose it always was sad –
that stanza… it stings me.
But then, maybe we were always
just a love song that drifted into minor:
“ich liebe dich”, sealed lips bleeding, nuns in tears.
Etching the end of a Sonnet: I am so sorry.