blood-red wine and skeleton jazz

i.

the day you left,

your cobweb dress clung to you in ways

that i would dream about for years,

in hot, fevered nights

when the moon thought it might burst

in the sky,

and even the wind wailed your name.

 

ii.

i remember how you called make-up war paint,

and you drew it across your face like a message

i could never decipher;

i remember how i got goosebumps when i heard

your heels clicking across the floor at 3am

when you finally got home and slipped into bed;

i remember longing for you with every fiber of my being,

feeling separate from you even when our clothes lay on the floor

and your fingernails dug into my shoulders

and your toes curled into the sheets.

 

you were always just out of reach.

 

iii.

i tried to break my fist against the wall

the day you left,

but i couldn’t punch hard enough

so i lay in bed nursing my bruised knuckles

and imagined you going to parties in hell,

drinking blood-red wine,

your skin glowing in the light of the flames,

decomposed corpses playing you jazz,

party-goers flocking around you like

the devil queen you were.

 

iv.

i imagined you everywhere.

you were a ghost

and i was haunted.

 

v.

i saw you once, years later,

and i had to blink to make sure you were real.

you were so normal

so banal

so human.

you weren’t an angel come to save me,

nor an otherworldly creature with moonlight in your veins,

nor an all-powerful being with burning skin

and cruel, bloody lips

and perfume that smelled like bottled sulfur;

you were just a girl,

riding a crowded subway at rush hour

 

and you smiled at me with recognition in your eyes,

but you didn’t say hello.

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