It smells and sounds—
the iron gate’s rusted sigh, the wet stone’s cold murmur—
as if the world inhales a secret long‑pressed beneath the earth.
A heavy, buried breath lingers, fat and fragrant with decay,
its rhythm, a thudding pulse hidden beneath the moss,
a heartbeat crying for something it cannot name.
I hear it, a low‑pitched minuet, the slow, mournful
dance of metal on stone, each note a finger tracing
the scar of your name into the night’s dark skin.
And then—stillness, black as a lover’s veil—
the night folds around us, thick as velvet,
while the juice of something ancient, sweet and sour,
seeps through the cracks, staining the ground with ruby promise.
In this cathedral of ruin we stand, two shadows interlaced,
our love, a rusted key turning in a forgotten lock,
unlocking the song of the gate, the stone, the breath—
a promise that even in decay, the heart will find its rhythm,
and the night will hum our dark, eternal minuet.
Excellent writing. This might be my favorite by you. “ruby promise”…I love that.