Death of a Muse

It doesn’t show on my face because it isn’t the first and it won’t be the last.

Morphine, mother’s milk, opiate sleep, our history de saudade: the most important part is that we have tried to stop again and again and it has never once worked. The rose quartz around my neck split in half without me noticing. The rings are beginning to rust. I am hiding my face. It’s time, we can admit now that separation excites. It must. Because I …