At fifteen, your sepulcher was nearly
complete, dear lover, slabs of immutable
granite set in place with your premonition,
with the diligence of your lovely hands, then
christened with your blood disease.
At thirty, you brought out the worst in me;
you lived then died in the places you’d
grown to despise. You tiptoed away on
stiletto heels, crossing shifting shale,
so pretty, pretty in fine silk stockings.
I wanted to bleed for you. Instead I
embrace your vapor, and the lock of your hair
you kindly left me. The years have passed,
dear lover. Your letters have yellowed
with antiquity, yet still, I wait at your Orphean
gate, pondering our jeweled romance and the
bludgeoned rats in our cellars.