In veiled,
onyx
lace,
I chase your ghost
in scores immeasurable,
in crescendoes
of yesterday
and shivering
melodies
of dreams.
The contours of your flesh:
a refrain of constant agony,
solace withered
by ancient hymns
of how you'd kiss me in the dark.
You--
in your cheap,
tweed
suit.
With your history books
and cigarettes
and your drab apartment
off of Sunset,
where the August sun
would teem
through windows
in perfect
bursts
of chaos.
Particles that mapped
perfect roads
paved with ivory skulls,
arching along the
highway
and drifting down
to the Kingdom of Death:
the gilded streets of Hollywood,
so oppressive,
my mind has not left.