whatever was
so misconstrued
how was I to ever
hang my heart on magic –
endear my trust to lies
whatever loss
might I confess
to moments
so enduring –
as those who came
who left without goodbye

should history
remember me
to something less
romantic –
a purple bruise
beneath a jaded sky
scripted as
a sleepless night –
burdened by my longing
with memories
of memory –
and ne’er a tear
to cry

. . .