the saint

This is not the novel gait of an insomniac, 
Pupils sealed, a promise of a promiseless
Tomorrow, lips pressed down with downy kisses. 
The crescent sends a ray of unfulfilled sublimity. 
Nights I wonder where you are, and why
You err so peacefully, a retrograde illusion, 
In absence of resplendent happiness. 

There has always been a prey upon your mind, 
A stroke of sunlight veiling all malicious
Influence, and you exist a martyr without a
Firm conclusion. My timepiece slips, and you
Appear a shadow in the embers of the dusk, 
Assuring me that all will be okay, anxiety another
Demon you have only wished away… vicariously. 

I have only known a sliver of an unabridged existence, 
A mere agreement that is not but a vestige of
Forever. And nights I remain wondering, why
You float so blisslessly, a wandering musician, 
Fear a thought before I never knew. And yet. 
I never thought that I would see a scene so blatantly
Precarious, and wish not for another—oh nothing
Can be interchanged—but wish that none be changed.