As my Jezebel always said
When she would open it in bed,
"There's never been a better time
Not to fall in love with dying."
Then sinking rubies in the moors
She'd lovingly conduct her wars
And train these artless lips to spill
The sighs which with a gaze she'd kill.
Murder never meant so much
To one like me, so starved of touch.
Yet our bed keeps an only me:
Quick-Death deals in spades, you see.
We may find it was all a test
To see which emptiness holds best.
A feeling ends but never parts
From open chests…or open hearts.