If I never lie with you

I will never lie to you,

to the casual observer I appear to look through you;

I wear bad luck as baggage

and drink as a badge

I curse every move of that bastard called time

that put beauty in his path

and duty

in mine.

 

No alabaster

comes close to your skin,

no imperfection can wrench anything

from the butterfly beauty and gossamer flesh

and each bald paradox that we can't understand,

like;

I have your picture

and he has your hand

 

From born Whythy kid to grown femme fatale,

from shy petit mort to suffering grande mal;

the shower of freckles

the funerals of hope,

the scent of the summer deep on your breath

the shape of your two hands

moulding your little death.