By M. Irene Hill
I still yearn for you, my love, especially on those feral nights when the moon is dark as a raven’s wing.
Trapped in that liminal place near the dark infinity, with a fistful of faded memories of you, and my decomposing dreams scratching against the coffin lid.
I remember the last time we visited. You brought roses; petals satin-soft and red, like the vital rush of blood. I kissed away your tears. Cried my own as I watched you leave. She was waiting for you in the car, after all.
Little corpses now, those black roses. Haunted by memories of you.
Very Poe-like, M. Irene, from the first sentence to the last. Excellent.
Thank you so much for that fine compliment.