It is finished. I wrote my last letter to you this morning. You will no longer inhabit any throbbing space in me, only that corner somewhere which the light no longer touches.
Things do not explode,
they fail, they fade,
as sunlight fades from the flesh,
as the foam drains quick in the sand,
even love’s lightning flash
has no thunderous end,
it dies with the sound
of flowers fading like the flesh
from sweating pumice stone,
everything shapes this
till we are left
with the silence that surrounds Beethoven’s head.