About M.

Life, you ask too much of me:
to roll her picture up
into a ball of oblivion, cast her
into the stormy world she came from.
It's beyond me.
 
I can't help but let the angry wind
lash at my hands and face;
it's a caress that makes me bleed,
a kiss that burns like a bullet hole,
and while it's true she never loved me
and I should rip her out of my life
like an old wilted flower,
she's still a beautiful red rose to me,
her thorns still fresh.