When you wake
looking for me
one last time –
remember:
silently, how cold
I was, the night
no one came.
Dry your tears
in her soft hair –
where memories, of me,
will be carried away
by armies of lice.
It would be fitting,
to grind, what is left,
of me, to dust: spread it,
over your new hearth;
she won’t notice;
not underneath –
all that is new,
where the passions
of your home fires
burn, I will fade
in morning cinders,
and you can tell her:
‘I never had a life,
not before you’
it can be true.
-LJ
Filed under: Poetry Tagged: creative writing, heartbreak, loss, love, marriage, poet, poetry, sadness