She used to write poetry,
what would make
Morrissey cry?
The one who left
with all his depth,
the holiest ghost
to ever stick
around his bed.

What would you give to me?
French press,
Japanese guitar,

Dominican cigar spark?

Hearts can grow colder
as they try to feel,
try to push it out.

Black haired
Italian marble,
darling,
we are nothing
to nobody now.