I have a feeling that he’ll die by the time he’s forty
And that’s not just because of the love he refuses to show me
Don’t say I’ve cursed him, ill-wished him, sculpted his body
In wax and stuck the pins in, chanting rhymes, an invisible hex
Insidious and damning, I’m not at his beck and call, the rise
And fall of the tempestuous words that tumble, flailing
Between us, he was born in a rush and lives as if time is
Running out, and I can’t keep up, I break into a run and he’s
Disappearing away in front of me, chasing the horizon, the setting sun.

And as I sit, muttering over my cauldron, of white wine blended
With my tears, curdling together, I reflect, it is possible to live too
Fast, and I laugh, till my laughter melts away and I find myself weeping
Again, and it’s…