I remember that death
Tasted yellow.
The urn on top of a wardrobe
Staring down at me.
Someone I knew was in there.
Transformed.
Shattered.
And the sun shone.
Death always came in summer.
I was left alone.
That’s what I wanted back then.
In silence, sitting, on the edge of the rose garden.
Where our trees grew.
The garden that lost his hands.
The garden that would slowly degenerate.
The hands were dead.
I don’t remember much.
I exiled myself and yet
He found me in every room.
Everything fell apart.
The games we played.
The order of things.
The way the day passed.
Her freedom came with things gone.
Time that had run out.
Everything felt too late and concluded for her.
Nothing had a point anymore.
As she had grown older her fear resigned.
Her apathy grew out of proportion, her boredom,
Even her disgust shrank.
The ghosts in her head were all that she had left.
That’s what she thought.
And I sought in her eyes the woman that I had always loved
And somehow barely got to know.
She had buried herself under too much flesh and skin,
Her bones could hold me and that’s all that mattered to me then.
Croque-Melpomene 