Dia De Los Muertos

Today is the day we died,

at precisely one year,

at nearly the exact minute.

You were my muse,

flawed perfection,

more than anything I had ever dreamed of being possible.

Everything I never knew I wanted came from you,

parts of me that I didn’t know were there,

and parts of me that were in a deep sleep,

you woke them with a vengeance.

You fascinated me more than any other woman I had ever known,

and it never stopped,

it never will.

Your name is etched across my forehead today,

to honor the dead that was us,

even though a day hasn’t gone by that I haven’t thought of you.

I’ll likely write this again in your honor,

in another year and again in another ten,

and every one in between.

Keeping forever as my dark-haired obsession,

always the purveyor of my passion,

torrential words spilled for you,

etcetera, over and over again, on and on.