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Rigor Mortis of the Heart
That night, working late, I expected to find you waiting— wine and candles, flickering light on your lightly scented breasts; the warmth of flame you had planned that morning, when you were naked in the bath.
I carried twelve Royal William roses in my hand; I did not know what else you had planned.
Our key turned the lock, revealing the cold behind the door.
The crush of emptiness bit my soul, breaking my heart and my dream of futures spoken in moments between your thighs, of lasting, and, “Please, do you love me?” as if it were the last question of a woman dying.
Now I know it was.
And that you had rigor mortis of the heart before you broke mine.
That night, working late, wine and candles, light flickering on your softly scented skin; the warmth of the fire you planned that morning, when you were in the bath. I brought twelve Royal William roses;
Our key turned the lock, The emptiness
breaking my heart and my dream
of futures whispered in intimate moments, of lasting, and, “Do you love me?” as if it were the last question of a dying woman. Now I know it was.