Slow Burn: A Poetry Collection

Widow

My macchiato girl read books

through our ages

She laughed in her star fields

fed me her affections with credit to my ego

Steaming and dark, she was riddled with curls

and terribly fierce

I did love her

so ineptly 

she found her last breath in my care

Curls spread themselves wide

Steam settled like dew over

fawn-colored catastrophes

My city crumbled

my breath labored

the night was dreadfully dark;

Because I'd chosen her,

over budding trees and silken flowers,

building and labor,

over tangible hurts,

and most importantly;

over everybody else who'd ever lived or died.