Mine would be a great death
My sins would glow like ancient jewels
with the delicious iridescence of venom
Aromas of all kinds would flower from my grave
teenage versions of my greatest joys
my secret words of sorrow
Maybe someone will say that I was loyal or good
but only you will remember
the way I looked into your eyes.
Last night I dreamed that someone told me: your love is dead.
Your love, the girl you loved when you were young,
In a cold city in the South
where the parks are one huge dewdrop,
at the hour when the fog is still virgin
and the city turns its back
on the gaze of desperate souls.
And she died- they told me – without saying your name.