I am without words.
I don’t know anything anymore.
What is right, and what is wrong?
They put a label on us and our love long gone.
Did our love die out, or did they kill it—
put an end to the madness before it began?
We’ve survived until now,
but this time feels different.
This can’t go your way nor can it go mine.
We won’t be okay,
but maybe in time.
Maybe some day we’ll make peace with this war.
How we got here I still don’t understand.
I speak without words.
I can’t speak anymore.
My thoughts do not belong on paper.
Against all that is natural,
you left a writer—
Sweetest Jezebel, remember me from the clouds,
for the flowers that rest on your grave—
azaleas, of course—
bare the markings of my soul that only you, sweet Jezebel, have touched.
Don’t dare to forget the icy chill of morning
before the sun blooms anew in the sky’s garden
nor the ever-lingering songs of faith,
the ones you joined in thrilling harmony.
The house you once kept has aged bitterly.
The floorboards scream out in agonizing pain,
the pain of abandonment. I am quite sorry.
Still, despite the ashes that remain in your honor,
the old place remains regal in its nature,
a palatial museum tinted with disdain—
or so it seems.
Now and then I stumble upon my heart,
which has buried itself in the soil beneath the willow,
the one that sincerely weeps with every passing hour,
with each tick of the clock.
so goes the fierce machine.
so goes my enemy.
I do beg of you, my Jezebel, to remember me below,
for you are the stars,bursting vibrantly,while I manage a forgotten museum.
But Not Your Ashes
Your melodies remain beneath the weeping tree.
They haunt the path to the lake,
a body of water much like your breath—
You’d care to know that I found your ashes;
the woods did christen them.
I hold them tight into the night,
but you—my love—have vanished.
Goodbye, My Song. Goodbye, My Love.
Alas, you crouch behind the shrine I built in your wake.
Your song echoes in the tomb down below,
yet I hear nothing but the chimes of sorrow among these cherished treasures.
Dancers prance about in spite,
cackling like fairies charmed in the night.
They are here—you are not.
I suppose this is goodbye, my love, for although your remains recall the melody,
I cannot bear to live with just a song.