Parting Song

First it is one day without you. Then two. And soon, our point: moot . And our solution, diluted. And our class action (if ever was) is no longer suited. Wherewith I give to looting through the war chest of our past like a wily Anne Bonny who snatches at plunder or graft. But the wreck of that ransack, that strongbox, our splintering coffer, the claptrap bastard of the best we had to offer, is sog-soaked and clammy, empty but for sand. Like the knuckle-white cup of my urgent, ghastly hands in which nothing but the ghost of love is held. Damn it to hell.