when the flowers had dried brittle in their
cellophane robes, and the hand written
condolences faded to hieroglyphics,
she sighed regrets to the inquisitive,
produced tears for the sympathetic,
unleashed bile on the ghoulish.
Her sorrow, it was agreed, was a
noble tribute to her friend,
a record of love that prolonged
a life beyond death,
and spoke of a beautiful friendship.
Recounted with horizon eyes,
her souvenirs allowed strangers
to reveal their brackish tears,
yet with so much love on show, she hid
her most vital sustenance, cloaking it with regret.
Only at night could she grieve the loss of
his muscular embrace, despite his dark strength,
his gentle caresses, despite his venomous bruises,
his delicate words, despite his caustic wit,
his love, despite his jealousy.
Dissolving to this lullaby she would
proffer the handkerchief,
until waking moments, taunted by hope,
soured to mourning hated love,
conducting a tempest of her every thought.