Certain Death Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

Of this, I am sure of –
She is still awake,
And singeing the night.
Behind the cream curtains,
Inside the abyss of this stale room,
I induce ebullience from stark verses,
And from the obsequiousness of the authors
That I have come to know
And feign to forget.
My hands are meshed to each one,
And hints of prayers hanging
From my slightly parted lips-
She is still awake,
And in my despairing, blank hours
Of point blank reference and point blank hope,
She does not think of me –
Or if she does think of me,
This I am sure: I will fade as undemanding as
The stars that shiver and lose their glow in the distance.
She has forgotten about me,
And I surmise that I shall forget about her too –
But in lieu of this indecision,
I am imploding like sliding planets.
The ticking of the clock
Reverberated inside of me – a hollowed chasm
That longs to be filled.
Yes, she is still awake
And she is very much alive
Inside of me –
And sometimes, I am alive inside of her too,
And that is when loneliness shifts
Into ravaging tides.
From that event, she moors herself
Into one of my stations
And when the Sun shines whilst
My stations are lackluster in defenses,
She leaves without notice.
Abruptly, like the sudden change of the
Sea verdure –
This I am sure, she is awake inside of me.
And this I am sure, I am lifeless
Inside of her.