the memories of those moments linger on;
for though she’s glad that he is finally gone,
that heady perfume won’t let her forget
electric nights, entangled in his net,
with endless fucking, cries of “Tu es mon
soleil, et tu es vraiment mon amant!”
But passion suffocates in unpaid debt.
And passion leaves a sour taste in her mouth–
a bitter banquet, served with doubt and lies–
the leavings of a life that headed south
to bake beneath those endless desert skies.
She chants her mantra like a child’s song:
“The love that’s lost is love that makes us strong.”