I once thought your face was of the angels,
lily lips boxer’s nose Botticelli eyes,

dove into the quarries you dynamited
with the words you spoke,

wanted to comb your hair with my fingers
and play with your loose threads,

and I needed to touch you, even
belonged to you, though you

will never see my face.
And I thank God for that.

I thank God for the death of dreams
in which I plagued you, I thank God

for the softly creeping thoughts that
maybe you had something deeply

wrong with you, unfixable and
unromantic, a truly murky soul

hiding behind a Baroque mask
sporting long legs and perfect hands.

I never wanted anything but your breath.
Thank God that wish is dead.