Sitting Across Death's Door

I loved like a question God never answered, Never questioned insurrection’s hazard. Heart in revolt, mind tied to a mast, Sailing through storms that were never meant to pass. She came like dusk—quiet, fatal, and slow, Lit my void with a counterfeit glow. Whispers like scripture, hands like chains, Her kiss tasted holy, but her eyes spoke pain. I held her like truth holds a lie in disguise, Like numbness that still knows how to cry. We danced on the edge of what can't be undone, Two broken philosophies chasing one sun. On fate’s misguided ideologies, a neglect to the sum, We gambled eternity, then blamed what we'd become. I searched for her soul in a room full of smoke, She searched for escape in the cracks that I broke. Love wasn't absent—it was bruised in the mirror, Reflected in silence that screamed even clearer. We spoke in mistakes, fluent in ache, Wrote poems on skin only time could erase. She was the void dressed in something divine, I was the prophet too drunk to see signs. Together, a requiem, soft and undone, Philosophers of ruin beneath a dying sun. Sitting across death’s door with rums of ruin, Sipping sorrow from glasses cracked and bruising. Each swallow a gamble with ghosts of regret, Each breath a reminder of debts unpaid yet. And each word, a quake for gloom, Shaking the silence in this hollow room. Pain’s the currency, love’s the debt, We pay in sorrow, drown in regret. Reflected in silence that screamed even clearer. We spoke in mistakes, fluent in ache, Wrote poems on skin only time could erase. She was the void dressed in something divine, I was the prophet too drunk to see signs. Together, a requiem, soft and undone, Philosophers of ruin beneath a dying sun.