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Eros, you say you are back. Grand and good
for you. Hurrah. Now lop off this heavy
forked-tongue of mine, it is useless. I should
blame you for what you’ve done. I was honey,
manwax, the wind-turned question. I was all
there was. Now time, sweet milk, the drowsy
bee, all conspire against me. Once a small
fire could scourge the sky; I was your dirty
boot, your cockerel. My passion sleeps dormant.
And now, dear Eros, you say you returned.
Selfish. I call you selfish with your sly
magpie grin. Look at me. I was vibrant,
rude and willing. Before. I burned. I burned.
You left me to face down the whole burning sky.
memories of my ghost sista 