The vision of you, lying back, motionless, a
tender lifeless form, is perfect. In the emptiness of your chamber, you lie on
your pedestal.
Falling around your retired eyes is the gold
of your turning strands. The gold turns around your closed lids, the lids that
cover the eyes, the eyes that have witnessed my joy and beheld my despair.
Your face is like butter, smooth and pleasant,
a surface of calmness after the churning I have put you through. But now you
should rest, I should put you to sleep and not wake you. Nor in the course of
my unrest should I evoke you from your slumber.
Your lips are strained in purple, the dull
purple in contrast to your pale, bloodless skin, with beads of red dried on the
curling corners.
….if the death of love in a person's heart
had a human form, I imagine it will look something like this…peaceful, beautiful,
but still dead.
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