i.

Son of rivers, adulterer of books,
stag in the sanctuary bleeding watercolour
your inner-physician overlooks, our fate’s favour
asks of us both another chapter’s
footnote for strangers to remember fondly
when lamenting in presence of others
how forever never was, that what
this might seem to them means
nothing when compared to what is,
no justice, no peace, since freed,

                    ii.

my Andreas, even after weeks domino
from unknown weakness revealed in years,
to months between husbands cheating time
spent buying concocted affections grief denies,
how in those moments questing for
constant change turned as every season
does eventually to wanting to save
from fading increasingly distant experiences, pasts
presents replace only with tomorrows anticipation
persuades those loneliest since parting to

                    iii.

take, settling in our unsettling for
mistaken sentences, conflicting convictions our imprisonment’s
origin, but listen, for once forgiving
how pompous I get when posturing
for an audience, knowing as you
of all must that two faces
gracing the same coin, simultaneously brazen
and tame, my Andreas, your soul’s
mate mints to repay for our
many heavens any sphere I cracked

                    iv.

in my fall profaned, only games,
babe, the way my personæ played
against all their odds my heroes
whose names were mantras those jaded
avatars of fame betrayed as having
no divinity when we saw them
most nights without masks preying upon
their own scars, fatigued gods fighting
to hang onto myths we witnessed
dissolve, not to fit in, but

                    v.

educate my Self, instead, on how
not to wrought iron bars be
brought, to fend off a world
with its fists waging carnage on
artists to cage thoughts, to learn
how best to express my heart,
my love for you, my dearest
Andreas, this vanity made you believe
was lost, but Hollywood’s not where
romance emerges and evolves, it’s where

                    vi.

even fake bouquets rot, purchased by
urges from those before us who
bought lust’s by-product, an industry all
waste will not hesitate in destroying
what’s gushing of abundance, having plenty
in the first place an advantage
distinguishing those with love to give
from phantoms pragmatism evades, way made
instead for fantasy, those shades graven
images my idolizing them they wanted

                    vii.

and waited to break us, my
daze enervating, sighed too late to
realize chasing stardom chased away mine
when his was rising, darling Andreas,
tonight I’m writing what in wrong
hands might otherwise by plagiarists become
someone unenlightened, better suit an executive
whose indecision inside her or his
head they would regret having let
go on read by emotionally illiterate

                    viii.

stakeholders what your silence better said,
that, in our ending getting what
I give, I have gotten over
wanting to be worshipped, sick of
it, in fact, walked when not
called, crawled not back but toward
this path of yours the pathos
of our pact my ambition ignored,
powerful words to action restored, vowing
as I do again now, warmth.