Andrei was a promising singer
Until she decided to reserve her voice
For only one man.

How we got here,
Where patient words
Are simmered by static vitriol
And panicked despondency,
Where goodbyes
Join untouched manuscripts
In their century-old,
Senile and sorry sage,
Where thrones and crowns
Reign with lost definition
Among dry and wry laughter,
She couldn’t tell you.

Or maybe, 
That’s just because she didn’t need to. 
Not when 
Old, bold amaranth acid here could.

He says,
With bittersweet teeth 
And a bittersweet tongue, 
That Andrei 
Trekked on ebony eggshells
And ivory dreams
Every time she swayed
In spacey glory
And aureolin poison.

Amaranth acid
Shimmered 
In wistful whispers
And crescent smiles.

Peering into that throttling heat,
Where it tethered onto throaty catacombs
Of G major nocturnes,
B minor melodies,
And D major deaths,
I dared to sing 
In furrowed ire,
Only to be silenced
By Andrei’s docile orisons,
Waning and wary,
Deprived and desperate.

From that point onwards,
I chose not to hear.