What I'm afraid of is not you, it is
the final, meek embrace of memory, that
swift, abrupt arrival at the dead end
of time, staring back through history's mirror.

The final meek embrace of memory that,
falling, alerts me to the sudden shadow
of time staring back through history's mirror
upon our table (set for two), murders our love.

Falling alerts me to the sudden shadow,
the obscure outline of stories once told
at a table, set for two, where our love, murdered,
marks me with the lipsticks of fled midnights.

The obscure outline of stories once told,
like the moon's crescent warmth sharing our first kiss,
marks me with the lipsticks of fled midnights
and, caressing my hair, whispers, then flees.

Like the moon's crescent warmth sharing our first kiss,
this crisis—remembering you—promises,
and, caressing my hair, whispers, then flees
under the cover of death's enraged clouds.

This crisis—remembering you—promises
enough to bring me here, to speak to you here,
under the cover of death's enraged clouds
but not enough for love to conquer your ghost—

enough to bring me here, to speak to you here,
in the graveyard, when I am cold and unmoved,
but not enough to at last embrace your ghost—
your memory, outlasting, surviving

in the graveyard. When I'm cold and unmoved,
what I'm afraid of is not you, it is
your memory, outlasting, surviving
swift, abrupt arrival at the dead end.