I remember you in this and that, in parts, like the summer of your 19,
That languish of a year, that June was indeed a
long poem in black.
That night when we walked hand in hand, the Asian moon out on a blot,
Up until today, when I do recall, I can only think of
Hong Kong in black.
And that bloody inebriated day, when we drank and swam in the Australian,
You had cussed and screamed in your native tongue, “I can smell red all
along the black.”
On the day we had danced and waltzed to the tune of the stars,
At the altar, you looked stunning, the white all around you was as
strong as the black.
At Spain, in that blasted shopping mall, living dangerously, you had chosen an unlike you lbd,
You had looked at me in askance, and I had nodded in annoyance, it was a
wrong shade of black.
As I had lain dying in your arms, you offered to hum a sweet lullaby,
A rhyme here, a tune there, a note here, a pitch there, my own epitaph -my
swan song in black.
swan song in black.
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