Midnight

I opened the last memoir
Of the sea shells, and holocaust.
(You were sleeping under the snow of Manchester, and I was rushing in the middle of irrelevant strangers.)
The bow tied up our hands like a present.
A universe in its own moment.
The poison of Belladonna dripped from her ashy mouth
To the dried up ocean,
Into your veins.
Who called her name during the strain?
I inhaled the smoke off the Pandora's box just to be nostalgic for our future (and longing for our past).
And hear my silence,
For it is as loud as your presence.
Be fine, dear, be kind.
Come home, come home, come home.

(Song of the Week: I Miss You, by Incubus.)