Melancholy

I took a trip last week to go visit you, 

but the bus broke down.

I wrote letters festooned with gold wreaths on

the wings of doves,

there was no reply.

I counted the seconds since your departure

until time stopped dead in its tracks like a 

deer in the headlights. 

Remember the dead baby jokes you always

told me? They weren't funny, but I always 

laughed just to see your dazzling, sun-lite smile. 

I thought about calling you, but then 

realized you probably don't have service there. 

I painted the picturesque glow of the

moon on the bare hills, just like you loved.

You reached into the deepest crevices of 

humanity and brought out the sweet, ambrosia-

like goodness and shared it with me.

Your homemade ravioli was repulsive, but I

scarfed it down with a smile. By the way, how

do the worms taste?

Those wriggling, writhing, 

beast boring through your pale skin, crawling

on your soft breasts, bursting from your dead lips.

Maybe next week I'll bring you some

baby's breath, to freshen yours.