At the margins (a rewrite)

He stares through the satin darkness,
Straining at each deceitful trick of the eyes.
Minutes, hours, perhaps, have passed
Since her departure forced this armistice,
Their destructive rift brokering uneasy peace.
So many hours lost to spite and bile
For such an innocent little lie.
They are fated to live at the margins of sanity,
Forever tearing at the hearts which bind them,
Hate wearing the seductive cloak of lust,
A parasite feeding on love's husk.
He finds this silence unbearable;
Alone in the darkness he cannot reason,
Reality warped in cruel mockery
Without her rage to bring focus and
Clarity, heralding the descent into the bliss of violent ruin.
She will come, she must come,
And in the fire that consumes them,
His heart will beat again.