here she goes again,
a devotee on her knees
at the peak of the full moon,
past midnight yet
way before witching hour

it’s the third time that month
that the girl kneels before Her,
weeping at the altar of Aphrodite,
feeling the full weight of past loves
on her fragile spine,
almost as heavy as the past lives
she was forced to carry through her youth

she was so young,
but her lamentations rang
millenniums before her

oh, Aphrodite

she wept

how many more innocent roses
do i rob of blooming?
how many more candles
left burning?
how many more full moons
do i watch waning?

the words overlapped in
deafening incoherence
but the clarity of pain
rang above the noise
of mumbled syllables

it was clear enough
that Aphrodite –
the cold goddess –
wept a tear

for She has allowed
this girl’s heart
the sweetness of infatuation,
only to drown that out
with the inevitability of disenchantment