perfect

Something is smoldering below these drying eyes.
The wind picks up and sound, with leaves and death,
Is carried far beyond my outstretched hands.
I cling to this the way I've clung to you for years.
Before the veil was fully burnt I learned of simple things.
The way to your heart was a minefield.
 Despite the weight increasing I can see the emptiness within my arms.
So to are all the things I spoke to no one on that day.
So to the bags of mirth left dying in the bed.
In absence of the sun's golden red rays I am undrenched.