She makes this feeling alright.
Dulcet melancholy
Tones, near-naked; stripped of flattery.
Dub-deep dark, ephemeral,
And tasting like the petrichor
After the sheeted film of summer sun-baked
Rain has passed.
She's a song,
Singularly lighting each synapse;
One by one; endorphining
My inner sanctum.
I doubt she knows.
I doubt she'll ever know
Because I doubt she'll ever see this.
Even so,
All the spartan rain particles
Will keep fragmenting,
Like burnt icicles,
Since she's etched her song
In memoriam.
But what is love without loss?
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