The Death of Love

The death of love is not loud, but a whisper in your ear at night
when all seems right and calm.
It’s the poison that slowly seeps through the mind,
down the spine and to the heart.
The death of love is angry and bitter, but mournful.
The scorn which devours communication as it eats through the healthy
tissue of integrity and destroys the fabric of
honesty.
The death of love is quiet.
It walks on padded feet, through the shallow parts of the logic
that once held love together through whim and fancy.
Waiting with bated breath for its chance, it holds tight.
The death of love is not war, but a silent retreat by moonlight,
the white flag left behind as a token of recognition of what was
right for all.
The death of love is cold ashes.
Where the fire burned, the embers cooled and left nothing but destruction
and the memory of warmth.
The death of love sits quietly across the table, watching with
anticipation as it measures every movement.
It waits; and when all seems calm it strikes, wrapping itself around
the throat of emotion, squeezing till there’s nothing left to give.
The death of love is a cold bed
when there is someone warm beside you.
It is a misspoken word at an opportune time; The temptation to keep talking when everything has been said.
The death of love is numbness. It is the eye of the storm when rage
tears at the periphery of sanity.
With twisted words and jagged breaths the death of love nestles deep within the heart
and lingers.


2 thoughts on “The Death of Love

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