Nebula.

Don't ask, don't tell.

We cannot see eye-to-eye today.

I can feel your hips near mine
but no, not your face.

There is a woman, so transparent,
yet she blocks our viewpoints. Wildly
glittering, dangerous eyes that seem
to whisper a delicate murderous

scramble for air; air; she puts on
facile airs like the mascara that stains
your face like two carefully made mistakes.

She turns your wits like
woollen thread on a spindle. She makes
you overtly cautious, you are afraid
of my temper, my icy ledge of sanity.

She's poisoning my mind until the ground
has no feeling on the balls of my feet.
My body is dying, the monthly red flood
never arriving.

I cannot comprehend your
strangeness and you cannot mine.

The white silk you wore that day in the
middle of July with flying glitter and stars
born and all of nature's equilibrium was
fair and true has gone vulgar. This woman
wears it like sackcloth. So sensitive
that succubus is to the coarseness of
criticism.

We are standing in a derelict building, with
all it's mischievous poltergeists and broody
harlot wives eloping in every nook and cranny.

I hold your hand in mine.
It arches aristocratically like a feline
rapt by the striptease of a bird in flight.

The dusky light turns a vapid blue.
She's fading like colour in a photograph,
taken so long ago. Everything she was
is dust, her green cloak, and her spiteful curls
of bilious hair.

We will repair, we will have the eternal beauty
of a nebula after an explosion of the Sun
that I blew up when you said:

"No more."

Let Hope reign in a calming hue
of blue and let her sleepy serenades
dissolve the barricades, which Hate left
from her dictatorship over you and I,
like salt in the snow.