Breath

My heart was an ember

          and you blew on it;

took out your blade

          and carved 'true' on it.

You blew on my fire

          with a faraway wind;

it took for ever to come,

          but time does magic.

Now, as I unwind,

          I wonder, will it stop?

But no: this fire is strong;

          this last act is long: not tragic.

         

All sonnets must end

          with a rhyming couplet,

but when I look at your form

          I see formless -

So fuck it.