In the Afternoon

It is in the afternoon 
when I fall softly into sadness. 
The room is empty, too quiet 
without you. Only when I sit 
upon the porch, fragrant with 
blossoms, and smoke my 
pensive cigarette, does your 
sweet face summon clearly in 
my mind. You drink your 
coffee, smiling, talking about 
your day, the errant trivialities 
of our quiet unreality. Leaves 
fall in piquant rhythm to your 
musical chatter. Your lovely 
face bathed in pools of 
radiant joy. 

Grief is a beautiful woman; 
she sits beside me 
all throughout the hours. 
I tremble with prayers 
and tears for you. 
You lie in the garden, 
resting peacefully. 
I leave lush bouquets 
of roses at your silent grave, 
running my fingers 
over the smooth stone. 
It feels soft, inviting. 

Plump cherubs guard your rest. 
I ache to tunnel beneath 
the earth like a small animal. 
I imagine your sweet face 
in quiet repose. 
Oh, let me lay beside you, 
my love, lifting the coverlet 
around us, enveloping us 
in a tight embrace. 
Your cold lips shall be mine 
to kiss. For my bed is a grave 
without you. I would rather 
follow you into fragrant 
Death than remain here, 
gray and voiceless as a 
specter. My love, look for me. 

I am coming.