my bride, carved in stone
purity stained with blood-red rainfall
crimson tears smeared on the pale cheeks
her eyes sewn with marble thread

my lover, so alive
playing on the mute chords of silence
in the vermilion garden
where life was trapped, and enslaved

my beloved
quiet like unborn storm
dead for the world, a petal lost in the old herbarium
hidden and concealed

we do not need a god’s viscera
nor the goddess’ womb
to bloom with yearning, to drown in our own black pond
bury the sweet hope and latch to pain

to grow into each other
stone and flesh
deep hush and an avalanche

skin and blood
spread over the iron bones