Her tongue so sharp that each kiss draws blood
My tongue so forked that every kiss poisons
She is in the other room writing her own brand of poetry,
stringing together words like a lovely pearl necklace
I’m standing by the window,
awaiting the executioner’s bullet,
smoking my last cigarette,
searching for my last words.
Did we meet in May or June?
Was she wearing blue or violet?
Did I love her too much,
Not at all?
I listen to the scratch of her black pen against the cold white page,
a death knell in the silence.