We sat,
and sipped
silver glass chalices
of complex vintages,
skillfully mixed with oblivion.
How our eyes met,
over another night table
of solitary coffin nails
and slim, French cigarettes.
That same silk shroud
hung from your shoulders
and we still smelled of earth;
rich, loamy notes,
punctuated with something unmistakable.
Where your eyes were,
now lights shone on in dark recesses.
Your white brow
still as smooth and uncomplicated
as porcelain.
Without a word in our throats,
we never were better connected.
As cold as your fingertips felt,
I knew mine were colder.
And we drank,
and we watched
a new moon light up the night.
A star birthed
white hot blossom,
enveloping our mistakes.
As consuming as the love
of the resurrected.
HG – 2016
