Photography by Skye Collacott Williamson.

How unfortunate you were to love a girl who had never been loved,

Our constellations beaconing into a bridge for a time so monetary,

The love never quite married or quite buried in the cemetery,

Reformation or reconciliation, they will always protest against us.

Celebrations brought in a microcosm of my bed, my walls, our kisses,

A field of dreams cascaded by a simple act of taking off your ring,

They ring the death rattle, and you slip it on my ring finger,

I slip it later inside my drawer against your dreams to linger.

Your sphere is intertwined in my ring finger; my sphere remains empty,

Oh, nevermind the passionate devotion to the alter to my hips,

Breathless to our echoing admirations of harmony upon our lips,

The snakes and larks could never understand the need for isolation.

The voices in my head implore the way your eyes engulf my existence,

My heart continues to beat for you, but I feel the valve resistance.