Dearest Euphoria,
You come to me in visions
In steaming cups of coffee
And undone toffee wrappers.
I lay flowers at the doorstep
And rock candy by the foyer
Waiting for your return;
Set the dinning table
With fine wine
And hearty dinners,
So you may curl up by the fire place
And sing tunes of love
Like warm honey
and milk.
As you run soft hands
against the aged spines of my bookshelf
You ask if his love
is the one that rests upon my face,
Like like ugly red marks
Of swollen kisses
Trailing it’s way down my body.
I say no-
It is my own-
And you smile sadly,
Like I have told this lie before.
His hand rests-
Invisible
against the back of my head
Coaxing me to run-
Willowed fingers
to the back of my throat
And spill.
We sit beside the dying fire,
And you kindly ignore the sorrow of my shallow breath
And the heaviness of my tears.
I wake at daybreak
To your empty space on the rug,
Drag my body through
the five stages of grief,
and set the table for your return
