unintended innuendo
Season of violet grief
A day of navy oaths
The weather a dim pink hush—
ghosts of past, my muse.
I accidentally wrote a letter
scrawled on pale paper—
Guess, my June, what spills forth
when your blade slips through—
—not me, the envelope.
Perhaps a carol, yes—
or an oration (how proud I was!)—
or—
no, not that—
—perhaps just a thin red thread,
words sealed in failing breath.
Ruins of
all I dared offer.
Don’t blame me, love—
and oh, don’t fear me,
for all is said
as the letter burns—
in its pyre of regret.
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