Leadlight

Our love wears the gravity of old glass,
Thinning at the top as time glides by
And the sediments of choice collect 
Distorted, thickened base.

That is our history, there,
The bottom sits so smugly, 
Translucent still, blurred, ugly grainy film against a the framework of decay. 

Glass promises vision:  
View ours, it  drooped and hung its head within a year—
That long slow slide to ground.