—

The gentle cadence of the ticking clock
marked each breath as I sat with eyes closed.
Summoning her in the delicate lavender dress
she wore the last time we spoke.

The rhythm of those final words
Breaking with the sadness of a dirge.
The cornflower blue of her eyes
Intensified by the tears filling my own.

Blithe Time, the butcher surgeon of the heart,
He who kills and heals in equal measure,
Excised the jealous rage I felt that day,
But left my love without its better part.

The tribulation of the void she left
no longer scorch with the pangs of my regret
but still a lingering acidity like that of ash
that blends so well with coldness in my breast.

It was the lavender, yes, only the lavender
That pierced the chill, broke through the mist
And rustled with the aplomb floatiness of chiffon,
A not altogether…