Cherish Me In Chains.

Like waxen residue atop a windowsill, 
or the smoky traces that outlive the candle,
our love survives like hibernated winters,
amidst the fuss of reanimated springs.
Concealed beneath a single 
chrysanthemum's caresses,
far beyond the pale of hollowed,
summer moons.
Aubergine, the artifacts, 
of our affections, 
embrace me like another Autumn 
come and gone 
too soon.  

Should you forget to cherish
our chaotic, midnight memories,
remember that I will neglect
to honour you, the same,

If you fail to fall apart 
like the fragile frost of
February snow, 
I will become as brittle
as the brassy bark of 
every ancient birch.

If a day arrives when your 
calloused fingertips soften 
from no longer piously
sliding across the braille
surface of my skin.

The very next is when
my antedeluvian ears are
no longer flooded with
the melody that is your song.

But, if you should stay devoted
to my melancholy, wistful memory,
I will remain as steadfast as 
a pious congregant,
lighting agarwood at the altar 
of your love.