The sky of late, a great ivory slate,
is streaked with metals, ash and ghosts.
T’was a first date, t’was all in my gait,
the virus feasting upon its host.
I saw your blindheart burn absolute,
but at least I knew it then.
Your jokes fell flat with my loverheart,
still, my loverheart knows no men.
So, I’ll retreat into loversong
and I’ll revert to my loverways
of wasting all my loversongs
on wasting all my loverdays.
The sky, one day, will burn loverfire,
and I will wear every desire.
I dress the wounds of lovelessness,
burn on, loverfire, of endlessness.
My loverspeak is ever-fluid,
my lovermind so reassured.
The loverspeak spits love and swells,
my lovermind’s on loverspells.