You say you love me every day,

but your eyes are storm-grey, far away.

You fold me close as though I’m yours,

yet your heart drifts behind unseen doors.

“Do you love me?” I whisper low.

Your fingers brush my cheek—soft, slow.

A smile curves, but it does not stay,

and silence swallows all I want to say.

The world burns on—streets crumble, skies bleed—

and in your grip my breath concedes.

You’d tear the heavens just to hear a cry,

but mine is small, and passes by.

Could you love me like the dying do,

their trembling hands still reaching you?

You stand atop the ridge, unbent,

and watch the ruin, indifferent, unspent.

Scars you’ve left cut here and there,

yet still you breathe, inhale the air.

Even as smoke blisters your lungs,

your gaze drifts over ghosts, over the young.

And I—diminished, fading, slight—

am nothing but shadow in your light.

Yet in your arms, I find my end,

a quiet death I cannot defend.

I was never one to resist such charms;

I vanish, broken, safe in your arms.