Okay, Pompeii

Our lives are cataclysmic, 

dynamic, 

and bittersweet. 

But our love was melodic, 

and poetic, 

and abrupt. 

And you're okay, 

but am I?

Am I okay

with Pompeii?

The eruption of fire

and sorrow 

and spray of words like daggers

that was our end.

And the way I piece these words together is 

mosaic, 

sporadic, 

psychotic,

but Pompeii made me this way.

All the love I lost in the fires,

all the soul i found in the ash,

all the taint upon the spires,

and pleading in the choirs,

was simply volcanic.

Our love was Baltic

and arctic.

It was cosmic radiation, 

archaically veiled

to mean something. 

Just like Pompeii means death

and okay means take a breath. 

So I need you to tell me, 

our little Pompeii is Okay.