finale

to Love

it is your fire that crackled a coal and your every breath that burnt me till I, even in my same ever despondency, changed for this world

slipping under your twinkle-fingers, I find a comfort like no other hovering over the corpse that bears the lust, mildness and wishful thinking all the same

we did not get tired of ourselves but you, just as you first burnt us, seemed to get nothing but death again - you got tired of us

even in my same ever despondency that returns like your eerie glow I bid you hastily, old friend; for if not then, my final fire desponds.