She would never find her way back.
A violin that has discouraged its strings.
The empty chest, he blasted through.
And he would hear her name and forget
Her face. She crowned him with so much meaning
That whatever she’d touch, he would appear.
She had embodied a moment for him.
She wove time out of time without acknowledging the present.
She couldn’t predict his absence, that he would take his scent away.
She buried herself in her sheets and inhaled what she called love.
And she had lost it all, what she built, he destroyed.
She never realised how passive he really was.
“Helen of Troy” by Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1828-1882)
Croque-Melpomene 