Your dark head on my soft pillow;
so thrilled to cushion you.
You said it was too soft,
I was too soft.
One needs support
& the rough edge from time to time.
Your beer in my iced fridge;
cheap & nasty,
but it’d touch your lips.
Your careless clothes on my warped floor;
rumpled & discarded,
like life outside the bedroom door.
Your nails painted with my polish;
black, vitreous,
reflective of longing.
Your words;
those I never wish to forget,
knocking me off my path,
& aging me;
filled with something deep, dark.
Your fresh flowers given,
stolen from someone else.
Your music sinking deep
into my soul.
Your final act;
cold, coarse, drowsy from sleep.
Your shape
my body holds.
Your Saint Christopher,
your Maltese cross;
how I mourn their loss