written By
Love
(this love)
has left the room
feet first—
a procession
of embers and ash.
Illusions.
Delusions.
Damnable oxygen thief!
So goes the stuff
of paper hearts
and fiery tongues,
of promises—hollow—
past oily lips
and teeth that bite,
sworn,
born
to outlive names
etched
on gravestones.
Won’t you kill me,
softly,
with one last kiss?
Blitheful consciousness.
Walking sleep.
Ignorant bliss.
Then
call the shomer down the street.
He really knows his Job.
Rip the collar,
drape the mirror,
pawn the wedding silver.
Take your soul home,
rockin’ its funerary black,
and the stone I gave you
to rub
between cold fingertips
on High Holy Days.
