Ancestral Forest

Your name is the kind of word that poets say softly to themselves as they scribe it on paper.
And the quicker your sandy being slips through my hourglass, the stormier the skies become as I cease in my ability to reckon with the roundness of the roads.
Burying myself in the crannies between rose petals, growing into winter glory on the outside of your window, where your fireplace turns your skin an amber gold, and the reflection of the moon upon my hair gives me steel silver slices on the crevices on my cheeks.
The slightest breeze could knock you over onto the empty plains of the American past. No closure for a period made up of people wishing they were older than the magazine's paper binding.
Celsius or Fahrenheit, you'll always be cooler than me, and I'll never be hotter than you.
Paris was dominated by a Marxist-Freudian-Nietzchian paradigm. Your ballot was taped to the wall of your living room, upon which you had written VOID and scribbled a poem about someone who had forgotten you exist.
Is this a poem about someone who has forgotten I exist?

Does everyone have an ancestral forest? Because if we do, I think my tree was planted next to yours and that, really, I have no choice. My branches can't help but reach for your leaves until the last sun has set on over the last ocean on the West.