The Blind Death

She died without knowing that I love her.  My only morning flower wilted by midday and fell by dusk, unseen yet by the shadowed words only night can cast light on; my small star burst to scatter herself across a galaxy not known to me, unnoticed yet by the words I wrote on the black in scribbled constellations.

She is gone now, and her last breath lingers like the last pale beams of moonlight in my looking glass after dawn; and yet, she could not even sink away into horizon without my love.  She is gone now, and her eyes have sunken to the blue of abyss, and her lips have parted into languishing petals whose scent now floats out the window.  Her pale hand in mine could be any, it seems, for in these final moments when I was to grant her light she only met blindness; and she died without known that I love her.