Today is the day we died,
at precisely one year,
at nearly the exact minute.
You were my muse,
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.