Dorcalonnus

Now a tragic opera soared on mournful strings that carried salient hints of portending sorrow. For too long we clinged on, as our fervent mutual desires burned our world to ashes. Tongues of fire lapping at the tinderbox of fidelity. Beyond the heat I longed to penny words, to bring goosebumps to ivory flesh. But that is all that they are, words, clinging like lambswool to the barbed wire of life's misadventures. Greying in the rain, unable to let go of the painful stabs of contrition. I scribble my goodbyes in Parnassian confessions, over and over, year after desperate year. Ad nauseum I relentlessly pour out my pointless art, singing my song into a vacuum, every note swallowed by time. How long must I rue our coupling? How long must I regret our goodbyes? Dear God, I miss being the man that you loved. The aria of your ecstasy echoes in my mind, like a swan's dying song, most beautiful of all. Words whispered in throes of heightened desire, which cooled like summer's farewell in winter's chill. Words etched on parchment that opened my heart, as wrapped in your arms by the firelight you read. For the days and nights were gifts, sweetly given, yet lost their luster, tarnished by time. Lying in my barren bed, my skin pining for your touch, tears of raindrops murmuring the sorrow of goodbye. Too long has the memory of the taste of you lingered, as you drank deeply from my well of infinite passion. Yet, our nights were hollowed by sharpened tongues, and your words became as ash, dying on your lips. As parchment faded to dust, swept away by the wind. Dear God, I miss being the woman that you loved.