Lipstick smears my bottle of Merlot
where an angel built from sour grapes kissed it gently,
whispering somber poetry on the chilly wind.
The grass is lush and abundant,
running through my fingers like a head of freshly conditioned hair
on a damp, Earthy scalp.
Voila Viola:
Strings play softly in the murky distance,
notes dance on the sky, painted with stars
in a strange marriage of symphony and mosaic.
Fireflies rave before my outstretched blanket
laid out in checkerboard and plaid.
I toast the night sky, pregnant with your visage,
resting my arm on a concrete stone
which bears your name.
Voila Viola:
My lover, thus inscribed,
whom eternity had fitted for a burial gown
on a humid August evening
six months before.
I pour Merlot onto her Earth,
and watch the ground drink its fill,
Mother Nature taking her taste so she may
ferry it on to cold, blue lips.
I ask for a kiss, and a butterfly rests upon my cheek,
a gift from you, my bygone love.
Voila Viola:
Abracadabra is how you left,
alakazam how you depart,
and in the cloud of ensuing smoke I stagger drunk
with lipstick smeared Merlot.
Voila Viola:
Happy anniversary, wherever you fly,
or float,
or wherever rests your incorporeal essence,
or in whatever nothingness you now thrive.
Cheers, salud, and happy anniversary
you ghost of my starving heart.
