Why, you must be a man made of marble—
What else could have sculpted a face so beautiful
And a form so lithe, yet untouchable?

I walk a ghost among the mourners,
plucking stitch
after stitch
into my own burial shroud

—with a rose
tucked into the sleeve

as though one day,
a dedicated love might find itself here

the veil of glamour and desire
that shrouds a heart, beaten so black
and blue, that deep down, revolts the
idea of ever being
loved, adored, or anything but
the maiming devil it knows well.

i grieved the fall
before i even took the leap

pulled off to the lookout
searched the vast horizon

and in the salt spray,
in every leaf and bramble
found you wanting

oh, to be kissed
as the sun does this laquer skin
to breathe and be beautiful
effortlessly.

what figment of me
lives in your whispers?
what shadow dances
on your crumbling walls?