But tell him you won’t—
He may believe you,
But I certainly don’t.
Don’t bother with colours;
You’re not fall but winter.
And so dramatic—
Bare limbs,
White eyeliner.
You’ve tossed my letters,
Pretending not to care,
But can’t disown
Places I’m still there.
It’s almost August
Your beauty takes my breath—
Stamps your image
In darkness instead.
Night’s black ocean
And silver surf
Murmur in syllables
Daunting sense.
Forgive me, Love,
But all I’ve known is
Your mouth—
And the painted nails
That fix me to this cross.