Ache

To not hear her gentle breath
Going tender still with
The aching of the sun.
To not trace the contours on her skin
And to watch them change with time
As the candle melts.
To watch the clock ticking slowly
And day turn to night again
To carry love like a stain, after
Waving love like a flag.
To call out and receive only my echo in return
And to speak with little tongues,
With a wicked smile, as trouble does
Is not a gentle death.

*photo by Suzanne