LOVE IN LIMBO

In the mausoleum of my ribcage, a cinder glows— A sovereign ember exiled by its own heat. Love, that ancient tyrant dressed as muse, Stalks corridors of doubt in Chloe’s retreat. You, my petrichor in drought’s mirage, Wore fear like silk spun by ghost-spiders. What alchemy of ache kept your wings sealed— Was it memory’s venom or my reflection in your mirror of escape? I, the architect of invisible altars, Knit silence into space where passion should bloom. Guilty, perhaps, of loving like a library burns— Quietly, completely, without witnesses. And so I worship the relic of "us" In this purgatory of half-spoken vows. Hope, a charlatan in saint’s robes, Keeps selling me futures printed on smoke. If someday you return, as myth or miracle, Let it be not for love, but for fire— To see if ashes remember the shape of flame Or if longing is just the soul rehearsing absence.