Epithalamion (pending further edits)

Silhouettes are often a delusion of shadows.
The small obsidian arrowhead that crashes upon the marble table,
The veil of swirling nightshades constrict themselves upon my delta.
Tricking down,
Shaded by differentiation, 
The floral bloodstream laps up against the clock.
Je ne peux pas parler,
Je ne peux pas penser.
Foreign bindings intertwine along the fragile infrastructure
Of every breath,
The white borders tell so much more than meets the eye.

Je ne peux pas vous toucher.
And they say pines are evergreen,
But seemingly ever gray to me,
And one can only imagine how clouds harmonize with them.
But sometimes the songbirds die,
Or rather, stifle the shadows of the ever grey morgue.
But this is our wedding day.
This is the plaster of Paris 
With us crouched beneath,
And no one knew what we felt that day.
But who's to give instructions?

Sometimes I see myself only as a silhouette.
Sometimes the jagged rocks of cliffs protruding miles into the future.
And I'm frightened.
I'm really frightened. 
Echoes only travel so far
And distance is time.
Solace is found in the strangest places sometimes,
Like the gears of this pocket watch that never turn.

As latitude and longitude is replaced 
By etches of sunlight onto my grave,
Don't lose me.
For we are constantly in orbit
In a world that stands perfectly still.