Tasting the traces of midnight mist, the cold tremble I feel from your voice of deceit. Kindle this week of devotion and watch the heart explode. Force-fed the everlasting burn of love when all that is left are fragments of your lacerated letters and charred photographs. Now, every memory of embrace is in his skin. Blistering in my head I see you running into his arms. Standing in shadows of ruin. Auburn falls from the branches that bear my cloak, and the wrath of deception continues to kill like the fall. The dried roses continue to die, but warmth I once felt inside claws itself out. The familiar twinge is no longer killing my sleep. Still I can see your face in these empty frames by my bed, and the scent of your naked body remains in these unwashed sheets: It's in his skin... would he kill to love you because I would.

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