I wish our love could be
rose-colored milk,
smooth and soft
and light as clouds
even when it spills over.
Instead, our love is
an oil-soaked rope,
catching fire with even
the smallest spark.
I close my eyes,
breathing in this heat.
Exhaling the smoke,
I taste our death.

Categories: Art, Poetry, UncategorizedTags: c.eve, ceve, dark art, dark poetry, poems, poetry, shadow of eve, shadowofeve, shadowofeve.com, the first eve