At fifteen, your sepulcher was nearly

complete, dear lover, slabs of immutable

granite set in place with your premonition,

with the diligence of your lovely hands, then

christened with your blood disease.

At thirty, you brought out the worst in me;

you lived then died in the places you’d

grown to despise. You tiptoed away on

stiletto heels, crossing shifting shale,

so pretty, pretty in fine silk stockings.

I wanted to bleed for you. Instead I

embrace your vapor, and the lock of your hair

you kindly left me. The years have passed,

dear lover.  Your letters have yellowed

with antiquity, yet still, I wait at your Orphean

gate, pondering our jeweled romance and the

bludgeoned rats in our cellars.