Her pouring tears

do not interest me.

 

But the hair that drips

down her bare back

 

till it brushes

against the black line

 

drawn at her waist–

intoxicating.

 

Like dark champagne

Falling from a gold bottle

 

into a clear crystal glass–

Invigorating,                                   

 

heavy, and dark

as I grab the back

 

of her head and run

my fingers through the

 

strands. It’s coarse

like the raven.

 

I feel it drying

In my hands. I let go

 

because I remembered

it felt different

 

the first time.  I left her

on the colorless cliffside

 

and went on, but she stayed,

hands cupping her face,

 

catching tears that never ceased.

They just fell, eroding the red flush

 

from her cheeks

along with wind and time

 

until her eyes went white

and skin turned gray,

 

and her dead black hair broke

like ­­­ an empty promise

 

and fell to the torrid earth.