Resolution as one scene

ACT III
Love whispers with a knife,

warnings come in apparitions of absence
that stir fear thick in your dreams.
A measure of what could be lost.

Palms up,
with defensive wounds we embrace,
and we always make more blood.

ACT IV
We are found.

After wrong turns and riding on rims,
peeling truth like the skin of an apple.

Watching passion lynched,
swinging in time to closed doors
and separate rooms.

Spiraling one long curve of red flesh.
When the intention,
was to create sculpture.

We hang on to the resolution of romance.

ACT V
Feuilles mortes

You walk through Debussy,
distorting impressionist waves
with the swing of your arms.

My skin bristles
at the dissonance,
as we murder silence.

The corpse sufficiently cold
you leave the room satisfied
cascading dead sheets upon the floor.