The Plunge.

Tempests move.
Like burning torches
they plunge further
and puncture the skin
of darkness.
We breathe on
improvisation.
The lengths
the place
we were traveling
now time diminishes
just as we once thought
it had
it had not
it had
it had not
it is now the unknown.
The air is murky with deceit
like we thought
it could not be
we continue on
with our torches
yours is promiscuity
mine creed.
Superfluous whispers
break our own silence
we wave it from our ears
and it breaks

our heart.
Don’t laugh at me
I say
it hurts
it does
it does not
it does.
One cannot fathom
we continue on
but when?
when
when will I see
your torch?
again.