Sunday morning, when you come and find me
crying in a churchyard, by a fence,

you’ll spurn the promise spoken by mistake
and vanish — in a mist of self-defense —

as winter’s tears have covered up our love,
and muddled every memory with pretense.
.

Some day, in a burnt-out vale of Eden,
brushing flower petals from your cloak:

you’ll feel the autumn’s current start to smolder,
wonder how your lover’s breath was perfect,

watch his signal fade into the smoke
and vow to try again, when you are older.
.

Someday mourning, surely I will find you
crying in a graveyard, by a tree.

I’ll bring a wilted flower to remember:
wondering why you went there without me,

how Thanatos swept by, and each year’s ember
shone like ancient possibility.
.