pearls

it means nothing
the calendar days
of 365 singular occurrences
the times I could say
it without hesitation
that I loved him
and didn't

and every silence
every cracking beat
skips old grooves-
another missed opportunity
to shed the constant
mystique of well-organised
chaos

these confessions unheard
(they were prayers anyway-
clutched hands over the
seven beads of rachel's tomb
wound red about my wrists
only pleas of uselessness)
a deafening shriek that
halted my heart

and there will be others
to indulge this elixir
what makes a horrid planet
spin, they say
to deepen the well
into which i will fall

and it means nothing
the love proven to only
save ourselves from self-vanity
to abstractly consume all
phases of time to
a pitted void, an orb of
sacred blood and secrecy

what lies
in the waiting
of the loss
of my muse