On Thursday I will throttle you.
Drech of the week thinner, then
bacchanal on the tongues of
all choristers I am. And you too!
What loveliness when the grey
hairs return to your temples, my
choking the color from them. I
will not lie to you and say "This
is not a poem of my unrequited
love." Because it is. And how you
had so potential to make me
a better person, and I you. And I
am really trying to hold on until
Thursday. And you die in my
hands, and I you. And they
reconstruct us as one vilianesse.
