And you write about me still.
I died aged twenty-four, my love.
They all want to know what happened to us.
Amidst our sheets, in my bed.
That’s where death separated us forever.
And you conjure me up, still.
They claim there was passion between us.
Others say platonic devotion.
You still care for me in your mind and release me onto paper.
But why am I so sad?
Am I too young to discover love, yours?
I was thirteen when you put the ring on my finger.
Twice my life experience and you come back to me?
What has happened to you?
Are you a child still?
Incapable of dire solitude?
Sometimes I think you need me deceased.
I am the recurrent sad theme.
What makes your writing golden.
I know of your misery, Edgar, but my death gave you new intensity.
You loved me in Baltimore.
Gave me shelter in Philadelphia.
And I died outside of New York City’s borders.
And you stumbled back through our streets, a dying man in Baltimore.
Did you have an epiphany that no one understood?
Two years later you tried to ascend to me.
Have you ever found me?
Did you not bury me on earth?
Am I not in the minds of readers still?
Did you not make a ghost out of me?
Lingering in-between the lines you’ve written?
Did you not want to keep me by your side, invisible and yet so full of life?
When you collapsed on the streets of Baltimore, did you reach my feet?
They still study us, what we had, Edgar.
Am I still in that little room of death and agony?
Will I ever stop transiting?
Did I die as a muse or a ghost?