The Antique Urn

I remember now how the cobwebs clung
to the strands of your coal-black hair.

the hardwood floors smelled of familiar pine.

your legs twirled and twined in the shadows
of the humid attic.

the mirror fell in love with you that day.

my arm quietly wrapped around your thin waist,
and a shy smile spread

across your face like a pretty stain
of a wet-with-red paintbrush on linen.

the wood beneath, it creaked and groaned.

the lambent light shone dimly on your skin
of porcelain as it filtered though the thin curtains.

you felt almost real.

and my arms, they crushed you to ash.
I watched you spill through the fissures.

the rays stitched circles across your halo.

the faucet poured water in the room to the right
and diluted the bitter taste from off my palms.

but i kept your silver necklace in my handkerchief.

I remember now how the cobwebs clung
to the strands of your coal-black hair.

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