Waiting On Tempests.

Maybe this is how love ends

not to a screeching halt, but

slowly, gradually

with you as the bystander

watching in slow motion

the heaving and retching 

unable to do anything to stop its demise

it grows stale

and bitter on the tongue

it fizzles out

and suddenly you are alone

with not so much as a consolation prize

just the pathetic flickering

of a fading memory

like the afternoon sunlight

trickling in through the blinds

bleaching everything into white

erasing details carved into the night.