Oh Dionysus.
How I miss you,
but your blood....gives me anxiety.
It makes people hate me, I can't stand to be
alone.

I can't say I don't miss dancing with you
But it's not much of a party with just the two of us.
No one else is willing to dance for long.

There was a time where you were,
my only friend
and you would smile and take me in your arms while
I sobbed and enjoyed the haze of your being.
I in turn, worshipped you. Even if research, candles and hymns, libations of your own blood and my perfume could hardly be enough.

It's all I have, my lord.

While I miss the roiling, twisting madness of your magnificence
I shouldn't be there.
I want to be, desperately
but I pick up a bottle and look at myself in disgust and shame.
It's not you, it's me.
This is far from a disillusionment of gods.
I will still dance, my lord, just perhaps not as closely as before.