Our love was as beautiful
as the death of a exotic bird
the fluttering of its wings
in its final moments
the last franic futality
that in the end, signified nothing
just as death is the mother of beauty,
pain was the mother of our union
like the sharp sting
of a dagger to the stomach
our kisses ran like blood,
our words tore at the wound.
and now, all is nothing.

Penned by my hand on the 17th of Mayan, in the year 306 AF.