Byronic Mess

The candle flickers in the breeze from the window,

And the sweat is cooling on my skin.

I raise my head to the heavens,

And ask if this could really be called sin.

My view  of God is blocked by the ceiling,

And you getting up to leave.

The room feels cold with you gone,

Cold now it’s just my god and me.

My pillow smells of your shampoo,

And my skin remembers the heat of your touch.

I wonder how all of this could be wrong,

But the thought is too much.