gothic poetry

The Flame of Burnt Brandy

 

 

She was a Corpse Reviver No.1:

sweeter than her name

with a punch that would leave my head reeling
in the morning. There were lit candles
that smelled like apples and
honey. I breathed in the burnt fruit like it was the first time

I pressed my face to her neck.

Outside the leaves blew against the window

with the incoming storm; inside, my fingers

pressed into the pillow on my lap with
every word she whispered,
offhanded adjectives trailing through the foyer

to mingle with the dust on the baseboards.

It wasn't until the air stood silent that the house roared with age,

neglected after so many years. I stood

and felt the tingle of electricity in the air,

my bare feet grounding me

to the radiance of her alter. Nouns dribbled over my lips

like daisy petals plucked and dropped

under our yew tree. It was then that she rose

her blackened fingertips to my cheek

and let me cradle her absence.


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