This is not a poem,
it is a waning recollection.
I danced with death in Bermuda,
entangled in his unescapable grasp,
my deepest insecurities mirrored
by his icy and desolate self.
Love is like being stabbed in the chest
with a rusted length of discarded rebar.
The reaper himself embraced me then,
whispering deafening silence into my ear
as if it were sweet nothings
spoken by a long lost lover.
All poems are about death it seems,
but this is not a poem.
He haunted my footsteps still
into the melancholy of Autumn,
dressed in black woven sheets
with a goodbye kiss tender and cold.