anachronism

If the tunes of unplayed music

grow yet stronger in the mind

as blossoms left to ripen 

sweeten gently with time;

and if touch indeed has memory

then I've loved you

under a thousand suns -

and awaiting your whisper

inflames my very blood.  

this whisper like a shadow

between the lines of words

hangs palpably in the air

suspiciously unheard

as the silence before a tempest 

of impatient sound:

the silken ribbon of a sigh

before it is unwound.

fragment

a broken heart

is not a shard

lodged ticking in the chest

like the shrapnel of a timebomb
or a lie confessed

to be righted
or explained
or summed up

it is mute and
gapingly limbless
and cannot  chase
the hours backward
for the story has been told

ignited
inflamed
and burnt up

and the fading, empty echos
brand a senseless moral
into a numbstruck brain
so ice the pain
and sit suspended in shock

a broken heart
cannot explode 

or disintegrate

or drift into precipitate

of rust or dust or scars

it is the silent corrosion

buried in an ocean as

vast as a blank  watchface

beyond this empty, windswept place

that beats in the pulsastion-

the faded reverberation-

of an extinct and ashen star.