Eros Obfuscate

A conscious bloom refuses to luminesce in its forgetting;
wrought in low hours, and formed in the wake of longer shadows.
Weight and mass distort in your field of perception,
lensing with the eternally knowing gaze of familiar strangers.
Your constellate hangs nodal; always constantly alone,
only proximal from afar. Much in the way I remember you,
you'll remember this unharmed;
in the waning light of long-dead stars.
1.
You stood at the edge of that infinite swell,
watching clouds crystallize into spires that lined the horizon with
collapsed sublimations of regressing time;
angling forward to mark the end of visible distance in years
of trauma. Sacred elevations descended into lesser divinity.
*A young Wolf-Rayet bursts; in blissful gamma, in waves.*
2.
My tired eyes opened to the sight of white heat cleansing the earth
of its failings; cauterizing the surface of being,
forgiving once in the ache of forever.
Surveying the erasure of every single thing I've come to know,
there is only irradiate space across these fields of mourning.
Nothing survived, nothing remained; nothing that could ever return.
A formless being in the sterile
waste, I was the only thing that breathed.
3.
"Nondescript divisions spiral long;
as far longing takes, to convalesce."
"Yeah, you know where I'll always
be. Find love elsewhere. Not with me."
Pillars of petrified light hang over the hadopelagic expanses of
lesser perception; bringing structure to the former houses of human
endeavor, drawing from blood and time.
Wills ascend from the abyssal wastes,
to create as it once destroyed; in errata, post-memoria.
Psychic swells spring to life in the fall of Knossos,
branching from its polycursal paths;
where one-in-another find their exits
etched, in traces, on the palms of their hands.
Manifold, and at once manifest,
the constellations of body and being align;
in cosmic processions through longing, transcendent and made divine.
Eros regnat; consummatum est.
It is done.
"Everything ends here,
with eternity ebbing forth in a wash of lacrimal tides. Metropoles,
perched on the coasts of creation,
bear silent witness to our eroding vestiges;
lone sentries to the passing of the terminal anthropocene.
Being capitulates in the disintegration of all consciousness,
past and present; its ephemera condensing into the disembodied
utterances of our ultimately flawed condition.
All memory runs futile and far-removed,
reaching for spaces we're no longer meant (or able) to touch.
Such is distance; such is the story of us."
Pulled into the ever-knowing seas of dusk and long shadows,
the sum of our love is swept away; taken by waves of erasure.
A conscious bloom luminesces in its forgetting;
wrought in low hours, and formed in the wake of you.