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 morbidity.

At thirty, you brought out the worst in me,
living, then dying in the place you’d
grown to despise, your stiletto heels set aside
while tiptoeing away on shifting shale, with
runs in your fine silk stockings.

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 rodents of our
cellars.