A hundred days of solitude, she whispered,

time to take back what was yours, peace in your time,

time in which to breathe easy in the dying decaying air

and kiss me,

truly kiss me, not with passion or with hunger for what

lays beneath the ragged shirt and muscles betrayed

by the press of a button somewhere by a young kid

with sweating palms, but kiss me

though I was once loved by Gods,

one adored by the sound of a cello and violin

teasing each other back and forth, true love in the balcony,

kiss me with cracked, saliva felt lips and tell me before the

hundred days in which dust will settle upon us

and slowly take our fears away, tell me

that once you loved me so…

 

that once more before time starts to decompose

before my natural urge to fade away from you…

 

Tell me, before my heart runs out of steam as we shelter

in the darkness and under a moon that feels bitter neglect,

tell me just the once before damnation

sets in and memory of me stirs no emotion

tell me, tell me once that you adored me like a cello

adores an empty silent room…

 

She said these words but never saw a hundred days,

in between the dance of dying dust that bickered

and squabbled in her lungs, she breathed her last,

no final cello,

just an empty room silently applauding her life.

 

 

Ian D. Hall 2015