Like waxen residue atop a windowsill, 

or the smoky traces that outlive the candle,

our love survives like hibernated winters,

amidst the fuss of reanimated springs.

Concealed beneath a single 

chrysanthemum's caresses,

far beyond the pale of hollowed,

summer moons.

Aubergine, the artifacts, 

of our affections, 

embrace me like another Autumn 

come and gone 

too soon.  

Should you forget to cherish

our chaotic, midnight memories,

remember that I will neglect

to honour you, the same,

If you fail to fall apart 

like the fragile frost of

February snow, 

I will become as brittle

as the brassy bark of 

every ancient birch.

If a day arrives when your 

calloused fingertips soften 

from no longer piously

sliding across the braille

surface of my skin.

The very next is when

my antedeluvian ears are

no longer flooded with

the melody that is your song.

But, if you should stay devoted

to my melancholy, wistful memory,

I will remain as steadfast as 

a pious congregant,

lighting agarwood at the altar 

of your love.