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.”
RJT
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