Remember When You Were By Baywriter I see you each day by the streetlight, in a corner. Right at my neck. Over there. Everywhere. Never there. When you were, in June “I became a goddess wrapped in translucent scarves of provocative color. No man would resist.” “… it excited me.” “I was the luster of desire, gleaming brighter each time I unveiled new skin.” I remember. Everywhere. You said: “You will always Belong To Me. Those other men are nothing.” So was I. Your response: “The kingdom is aloft, and rose vines are my latter. Meet my blood at each handle; kisses on a petal aren't enough to hold me steady: I am plunging. Ice castles, floating wonder, pass me by, and by again. Underneath birch trees, I am reaching. And falling. Bitter calls press my lips, But I cannot stop. Stop the thorns on my flesh. It hurts. I need it.” I did not in July when “my body began to disintegrate beneath him. I couldn’t feel myself.” “I began my descent devoid of hesitation, falling into his form, the blackened lines and shaded sectors clinging to my body like a new lover.” “I wasn’t some whore.” Y O U “Punch, I punch back. Wanna die? Want it, fight for it.” Oh, scarlet and concrete Meeting in a dirty, infected kiss. Leave me. Leave me to burn. Angel, you called me. Dead angel. High angel. Won’t you lie, Angel? Just one more time, Angel. And then you were gone. Now. Never here. Over there. It could not be helped.