They never told me how you died; the newspaper said you overdosed;

            But was it a mistake?Was that really how you went?

            Did you go shocked,

Or die serene in the knowledge you’d done the one thing necessary

To put to rest your ripped asunder heart?

I went to see your grave, mute testament to where your empty shell lay,

But that moldering formaldehyde raddled mass is no more you

Than I without you dare call myself complete,

Or ever will be as long as your memory tortures me.

The priest gave me the ring, now an empty token,

He condemned what we meant to each other, this damnable priest,

Did he fear I would steal you from the life he had intricately planned for you?

Did he cause this final act of revenge? Did he sin, or did I? Did we?

And now I stand on the old bridge, alone as the brown waters flow beneath,

And I do the only thing I know I can; I take the ring and fling it, gold glinting

In the dying sun before it is swallowed up by the water’s murk, burying us

Just as surely as you lie entombed in my memory.

                                                                   -March 26, 2009