i come across as a blue vein in a lost arm.
or a red vein in a stump.
an orchid with black lungs. or a summer's day
that knows why you love me
but has no idea why
you left me.

i cling to the gone
like an enjoined hermit.
i fuss with the ridicule of you
and resign the feckless mirth
of our misadventures
to the blight
of our quaint
demise.

I am the Tin Man
but no longer a rough hewn hooligan.
i have become the smallest sun
above a vast atom.

So Thank you, Madame.