Throat of her Ghost

Incinerate my soul
drag me quickly to hell
clutching the lock of pillow hair
clung to for so long
to hold her devil at bay

No food for a week
all appetites are ruins
Feasting thinly on memories
I grow disinclined to wash
sleep little and wake often
only to curse her name
writhing my squalor
under sheets

Barbs of pain
fix my wretchedness
conjuring desperation
clawing emptiness
to tarnish the dead air
My haunted spirit shrinks
sad stone of a plum
shriveled on winter's bough
doomed to wither dry
helpless and alone

Howling
from the well of her grave
she wills me to wake
for another fruitless dawn
her slowest poisons
crueler than death
I grab at the throat of her ghost
but fall back frozen
as she proffers her cup
to bid me drink
and live