He loved too well the curve of your neck, the hollow of your throat.
He loved too well to spill wine onto the concave of collarbone and drink,
like he possessed more than merely your hand.
Her piteous gaze turned blood red with your rage.
She used to dry your tears with that same handkerchief. Chaos
crowds out your marriage bed
till there wasn't any room left for the living,
only the dead.
