Fallen Breath

She was a poet; and she died poetry. I couldn’t measure her
Style: it floored the school. We loved something gentle, a
Teal-blue; and we died something fierce, a night of love. I
Walked the sky; and flew the web; and passion soared—a

Mighty climb. She spoke French; and wooed a soul; and
Ferret love, a kitten trimmed. Her scent—a diamond, a
Charming brooch. We sought the earth, a tad naïve; and every
Verse, gut the soul. She spoke gold: so young to fly. Such

Was love: a cave a day; and such was pain: the caves of youth.
I spoke of rings, and pocket dust. She spoke of love, and
Wells of trust. Our days, so short: our nights the phone. So
Simple—our confusion; and so hectic—our love. We thought
To tango, a tatted moon; and fell apart, the month of June;
And thus the sun, a tint of death; and thus the heart, a fallen breath.