'Il'l

I love the sheets,
Of folding intervention;
Shadowed, sullen curvatures,
Of moments left behind.

Promised for always,
She, silent and bored.
Giving up purple haze,
Me, violent and lured.

Letting go of all,
In time for the end.
Am I far too cruel,
For new-age heart amend?

Relation, old relation,
Close and distant still.
Their vivid imagination,
The old me, ready to kill.

Cradle of wish,
Bending over, I see,
I see crystal ball and
Past, and them and me,
And coming home late from work,
And rolling greenery too,
And waking up and kissing,
And chocolate in bedroom.
Small packaged creation,
Proof of relative weaponary,
Proof of life-long loving, see,
See my proof of my imagination?
See my hope of better times?
See my bare, white arms
And empty palms.
Massive calming too,
Draped over you?
J'adore tu?

There are too few,
Too few lines to write,
End of all in sight,
No ink can run forever,
No heart will beat still,
No Red of life-ether, if you
Join me on that hill.

And remember I still,
Still I remember, And
I love you, still,
But I hate to kill.

Always, though, the two syllables of will:

"Until".