Words that Find No Ear

Eight hundred degrees. Not a second ticks in which I do not think of her lonesome face as she watches the Earth fill in.

Six months pass. I am still here, and you, still there. Islands to each other. And myself, to God.

My skin is nevermore, but I hope you can look past. For in my heart, I still beat. I still long to hold your hand.

But I know how things must be. If love is death then I am but Romeo. And if a widows remorse brings new love, then surely, you are not my Juliet. To be, or not to be.