A tongue across top teeth
brittle spaces they hold
inside the guts of an urn
spray painted indigo,
and that
is your color.

You always say you write
Water,
while I write
Fire.

I write flame
and I burn brighter than most,
my love.

And you are the water
that somehow held me
alit
until the moment you
no longer could.

(my neglect, my taking for granted,
my mental illness [Bipolar etched ****** features], death and loss)

And now,  I've slipped
and been doused.
I no longer write flame
I write the snuffed out
I write the ones who lose
I write the loss of
purity
innocence
childishness
love
My little girl...
... gone.

And so it seems I've been drenched
in November Rain.
It's true, you know:
The pain of loss remains.