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This is something I wrote on a dark and stormy night. If any party involved in its creation reads this—and one of them will know who they are—you know who I am now. I no longer have a sun to chase, or a night to envy. That memory can sleep in colder nights than that one.

For anyone else, I hope the rantings of yesterday might serve you better for the future.

My Sun, my savior, my only vanguard-

Swallowed at last by the god of What Will Be.

The coldest nights are sung as a deep, clotted blue

With bloodless fingers crawling to take my hand.

I had spurned these still-warm fields in Summer.

With no goodbye to grace his cherished wake,

The deepest red is now muffled in black veil,

As though to his own funeral:

Counterpoints in a clockwork marriage.

How can I speak? My lips are ashen—

From cold, from shock.

How can I bid farewell to one I’ve never greeted?

Or regret what has never been?

“Please! Don’t leave!” Though you never came for me.

Shall I expect a rosen blush? A crimson touch?

A lullaby from the sky I will never see?

Maybe to be saved from this misty glower.

To unfold in your velveteen vespers…

I shiver at last in your mistress’s dead arms,

Under Horus’ vacant, blind eye.

She devours your gleeful face.

With howls and moans and tender kisses,

And she blossoms in a glow I will never possess.

Fingers made of your ashes pull down my eyelids,

And I watch my summer dilute to violet.